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V    ^ 


WE,  HORN. J 


i35,YINCENT  8QUARE,8.W. 


LONDON  :     PRINTED     BY 

SPOTTir.WOODE    AND    CO.,     NEW-STRRET     SQUAKS 

AND     PARLIAMENT    STREET 


1G6416 


•    « 


CONTENTS  of  VOL.  CCLVIII. 

Another  Goethe  Correspondence.     By  H.  ScHiJTZ  VViLSO.v    . 
Arcacbon  lo  Bournemouth.    By  Percy  Fitzgerald 
Balkan,  Through  the  Breach  in  the.     By  R.  W.  GRAVES. 

Beasts  of  Chase.     By  Phil.  Robinson 

B&anger,  The  Tuscan.     By  E.  M.  Clerke    .... 
Bonbomroe,  Le,  Corncille.     By  Henry  M.  Trollope    , 

Concerning  Eyes.     By  W.  H.  HUDSON 

Curiosities  of  Military  Dlsciphne.  By  J.  A.  Farkkr 
Down  the  Red  Sea.  ByC.  F.  Cordon  Cum.mikg  . 
Erckmann-Chalrian.     By  Rev.  S.  Baring-Gould,  M.A. 

Eyes.     By  W.  H.  Hudson 

(^nesis.     By  Grant  Allex 

George  EUol.     By  H.  R.  Fox  BOURNE 

Greek  Statue,  A  Romance  of  a.    Bv  J.  Theodore  Bent 

Hawk,  A  Versatile.     By  W.  H.  HUDSON 

How  the  People  Get  Married.    By  Edward  Whitaker 
Ireland,  Political  Poetry  and  Street  Ballads  of.  By  Richard  Pioott 
Jane  Austen,  More  Views  of.     By  G.  Barnett'  Smith   . 
jouffroy,  the  Inventor  of  the  SieamboaL  BySHAPLAND  H.  Swin.n^ 
Man  and  Myths.     By  WILLIAM  George  Bi^tCK 
Married,  How  the  People  Get.    By  PIdward  Whitaker 
Merits  and   Demerits  of  the  Revised  Old   Testament.     By   Rev 

I  T.  H.  L.  Leary,  D.CL 

I  Military  Discipline,  Curiosities  of.    ByJ.  A-Farrer 
I  Military  Duty,  The  Limits  of.     By  J.  A.  Farrer    . 
I    More  Views  of  Jane  Austen.     By  G.  Barnett  Smith    . 
Myths  of  the  Stars,  Light,  and  Time.     By  David  Fitzgerald 
Old  Testament,  Merits  and  Demerits  of  the  Revised.     By  Rev 

T.  H.  L.  Leary,  U.C.L 

On  Getting  up  Eatly.     By  the  Rev.  H.  R.  Maweis,  .\I.A. 
Our  Last  Meeting  at  Tew.     By  John  G.Dow 

Paul  Scarron.    By  Henri  Van  Laun 

Peiii-Senn's  "  Pensi!es."    By  Henry  ArrwELL      . 

Poets' Horses,  Some.     By  Phil.  Rokinson    .... 

Political  Poetry  and  Street  Ballads  of  Ireland.   By  Richard  Pigoti 

Queen's  Marys,  The.     By  LoUiS  Bard£ 

Science  Notes.     By  W.  Mattieu  Williams,  F.R.A.S. : 

Sir  William  Thomson's  Universal  Jelly— Davy's  Early  Work— 
The  Beginning  of  Life— Poisoning  by  Pure  Water^Intern;il 

Disinfection^Fossil  Manure 

Our  Subterranean  Metropolitan  Resenoir- The  Battery  of  the 
Future—"  Heat  considered  as  a  Mode  of  Motion  "—The  Origin 

of  the  Moon's  Irregularities 

Why  Great  Men  are  usually  Little  Men— Tlie  Chemistry  of 
Manuring— Alcohol  and  the  Lower  Animals — Cannibalism  of 
Fishes — National  Fish  Hatching — Our  Supply  of  Soles — The 
Protection  of  Sea  Birds- A  Perfect  Filter  .... 

Soluble  Iron  Salt  as  a  Manure— The  Glowing  Twilights— Aristo- 
cratic Lineage  of  the  Scorpion — Imperfection  of  ihe  Geological 
Record — Perfumes  and  Disinfection — Are  Rats  Cannibals  ?^ 
Development  of  the  Iridimn  Industry — A  Sanitary  and  .Esthetic 


John  Isaac  Hawkins  and  Bra in-Growth— Geological  Common 
Things— Varley's  Theory  of  Earthquakes— Darwinian  Beef — 
The  Constitution  of  Clouds 

Immortal  Animals— Extract  of  Meat — The  Egg-turning  Instinct 
-Raising  the  Dead— The  Constitution  of  .Steel— Degenerate 
b'ests- InQubat^on  ai>d  M.ignelism   ...... 


609 


i 


Contents. 


I 


Serpents,  Some  Uses  of.     By  Ernest  If 

Shakespeare  and  Napoleon  III.    ByTHEOi>OKE  Child.        ,        .  379 

Shakespeare  Folios  and  Quarios.     By  Percy  Fitzgerald    .        .  185 

Siemens,  Sir  William.    By  William  Lant  Carpenter,  B.A.        ,  283 

Some  Poeis'  Horses.     By  Phil.  Robinson 156 

South  African  Salt  Lakes,  The,     By  W.  E.  Montague  .        .        .486 

Stars,  Light,  and  Time,  Myths  of  the.     By  David  FITZGERALD      .  495 

Steamboat,  Jouffroy  the  Inventor  of  the.   By  Suapland  H.  Swinnv  78 
Table  Talk.     By  SvLVANUS  Urban  : 
Pope  and  Bet  terton — A  Bridge  across  Two  and  a  Half  Centuries — 
A   Johnson   Commemoration — Mr.  Ruskin's  New  History  of 

England — Origin  of  the  Myth loi 

Expansion  of  London — Payne  Collier's  Diary — How  long  ought  a 
Man  to  sleep?— Lynch  Law  in  France — Little  Japan  in  London 
— Proposed   Purchase    of  Highgate   Woods— Sheridan   as   a 

Plagiarist 204 

Errors  of  Written  Language — Degradation  of  the  Language— A 

Historj'  of  Taxation 310 

Sheridan  and  the  Memoirs  of  Miss  Sidney  Bidulph — Whimsical 
Stories  preserved  by  Hill  Burton — Contemporary  Verdicts  upon 
Greatness— The  Stage  as  a  Profession  in  England — The  Stage 

in  Holland 413 

Survival  of  Paganism  in  Christian  Countries — Death  of  King 
Harold— Sunday   Lectures    for    the    Operative  Classes— The 

Book- Hunter— Indian  Troops  in  England         ....  517 
Proposed    Restoration  of  the  Church  of  St.  Baiiliolomew  the 
G re at^ Curiosities  of  Taxation^ Another  Bridge  across  Two 
Centuries — Mr.    Freeman   on   the  Abuse  of  Language— An 

Aspect  of  Sir  Henry  Taylor's  Autobiography    ■        .        ,        .  617 
Througli  the  Breach  in  the  Balkan.     By  R.  \V.  Graves  .        .        .163 

Tuscan  BSranger,  The.    By  E.  M.  Clerke S3 

Unforeseen,  The  :  a  Novel     By  Alice  O'Hanlon  : 

Chap.          I.  In  the  Backwoods 1 

II.  Madame  Vandeleur's  F£te       ■        .        .        .  5 

III.  "  You  see  I  am  dying " i : 

IV.  "Millions  of  Dollars"       .....  16 

V.  "  I  will  be  guided  by  your  advice  "  ,         .         .  105 

VI.  The  Dreaded  Interview 109 

VII.  Miss  Estcourt's  Story 114 

VIII.  "You  will  not  betray  me?"       .        .        .        -  iJ3 

IX.  A  Mysterious  Loss 209 

X.  Bribery  and  Corruption 213 

XL  Good-bye  for  Ever 221 

XII.  A  quiet  Wedding 225 

XHI.  Madame  gains  the  Day 230 

XIV.  Two  Brides-Elect jij 

XV.  Olivia  Ashmead 317 

XVI.  Wedding-Callers 328 

XVII.  Wife  and  Friend 336 

XVIII.  In  Hyde  Park 417 

XIX.  An  Unsocial  Evening 425 

XX.  Pregnant  Fantasies 433 

XXI.  An  unwelcome  Suitor       ...                ■  S^' 
XXII,  What  have  you  done  with  it  ?  .         .         .         .526 

XXIII.  Disconcerted 531 

XXIV.  A  Tragic  Ending 536 

Uses,  Some,  of  Serpents.     By  Ebnest  Ingersoll         .        ,        .27a 

Versatile  Hawk,  A.    By  W.  H.  Hudson 70 


(GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE. 

Janl'aky  18S5. 


THE   UNFORESEEN. 


V.\  Alice  O'Hanlon. 


IN  THE  BACKWOOPS. 

ALMOST  due  north  of  Quebec,  a  hundred  and  twenty-five 
miles  in  a  straight  line  across  unbroken  spruce  forests,  lies  a 
lai^e,  oddly -shaped  sheet  of  water— a  lake  deep,  and  dark,  and 
lonely.  Thirty  miles  at  its  greatest  width,  and  the  cradle  of  one  of 
the  deepest  rivers  in  the  world,  this  lake  stretches  in  every  direction 
long  arms,  like  the  radiations  of  some  gigantic  star-fisb,  far  into  the 
surrounding  solitudes. 

At  present  there  exists  on  its  banks  a  flourishing  and  growing 
colony  i  but  forty  years  ago— with  which  time  we  have  to  do— the 
settlement,  though  not  fjuite  in  its  infancy,  was  at  least  comparatively 
imalL  It  consisted  of  some  dozen  houses — all  modest,  one-storied 
structures  of  hewn  pioe-logs,  with  cone-shaped  roofs  and  projecting 
eaves — clustered  at  irregular  distances  about  a  clap-boardcd  church, 
neatly  large  enough  {like  the  churches  of  most  Canadian  villages)  to 
contain  them  ail. 

The  clearing  eETecled  amidst  that  primeval  forest  had  proved 
lemarkably  fertile.  The  soil  was  rich  and  warm,  for  the  climate, 
owing  to  the  northern  sweep  of  tiie  isothermal  line,  is  there  some 
degrees  milder  than  on  the  banks  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  so  far  to  the 
south,  and  spring  dawns,  as  a  rule,  a  week  or  two  earlier. 

But  whilst  plentiful  harvests  rewarded  the  settler's  toil,  there  was 
no  market  for  their  produce  nearer  than  Quebec,  a  distance  which, 
although  for  ihe  loon,  or  crow,  only  that  specified  above,  was  re- 
presented to  those  wingless  French  peasants  by  two  hundred  and 
L  fifty  roilcs  of  water,  in  addition  lo  a  tedious  land  journey.  Further,  it 
.  CCLTllI.     NO.   1S49.  B 


The  Genlleman's  Magazine. 

they  not?  The  com,  and  likewise  the  potatoes?  There  will  be 
plenty  in  the  coming  year  to  fill  the  mouths.  The  rafts,  too,  with 
this  fine  weather,  they  will  get  safely  down  the  river,  and  our 
husbands  will  soon  be  back.  All  this,  it  makes  the  spirits  light  and 
the  heart  contented." 

"  Contented  ?  Bah,  my  friends,  you  are  always  contented ! " 
broke  in  a  new  voice,  with  a  suspicion  of  contempt  in  its  tone.  "  For 
my  part,  I  am  never  contented." 

The  personage  who  uttered  this  assertion,  and  who  accompanied 
it  with  a  little  laugh,  as  though  she  meant  it  to  be  taken  jocularly, 
was  the  hostess  herself,  Madame  Vnndeleur.  With  the  three 
companions  whom  she  had  just  stepped  forth  to  join  (as,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  with  every  other  inhabitant  of  the  village),  Madame 
Vandeleur  presented,  physically,  a  striking  contrast.  Still  young,  for 
this  was  but  her  twenty-eighth  birthday,  she  was  a  handsome  woman, 
but  in  a  peculiar  style.  Her  hair,  which  she  wore  well  brushed  away 
from  a  low,  broad  forehead,  was  blue-black  and  very  abundant  in 
quantity.  Her  eyes  were  dark  and  penetrative,  and  her  features, 
chiselled  with  the  perfection  of  a  well-cut  cameo,  were  for  her 
position  in  life  singularly  refined.  In  figure  she  was  small  and 
extremely  slight,  and  this,  added  to  the  fact  that  her  complexion 
was  of  an  almost  dead  white,  gave  her  an  appearance  of  great 
delicacy,  an  appearance,  however,  which  was  somewhat  deceptive: 
As  a  rule,  Madame  Vandeleut's  expression  was  by  no  means  disagree- 
able, but  there  was  that  about  the  set  of  her  obstinate  little  chin 
and  determined  mouth  which  gave  her  at  times  a  hard,  imperious 

"  No,"  she  repeated,  slightly  modifying  her  observation,  "  for  my 
part,  1  am  seldom  quite  satisfied." 

"  But,  my  daughter,  one  ought  to  feel  satisfied  with  one's  lot  in 
life.     Not  lo  do  so  argues  ingratitude  to  a  kind  Providence." 

M.  le  Curt!  offered  ihis  remonstrance  with  a  somewhat  depre- 
cating air.  Fvery  other  member  of  his  flock  he  could  reprove  with 
that  authority  which  befitted  his  position  ;  but  with  Madame  Van- 
deleur  he  felt  always  a  little  timid.  And  in  this  he  was  not  singular. 
The  whole  village,  with  her  husband  at  its  head,  held  this  small 
woman  in  a  curious  kind  of  awe.  Why  this  was  no  one  knew,  or 
sought  to  know.  They  accepted  facts  as  they  stood,  those  simple, 
unreasoning  peasants.  Madame  was  a  mystery  to  them,  but  a 
mystery  with  which  they  had  now  been  fjniiliar  for  six  years,  so  that 
naturally  they  had  long  ago  ceased  to  trouble  their  minds  with  any 
aitempt  to  fathom  it.     Ever  since  she  had  first  arrived  in  the  settle- 


I 


Tiu  Unforeseen.  5 

meat,  as  the  bride  of  Paul  Vandeleur,  she  had  assumed  the  posilion 
of  a  local  queen.  By  what  right?  None  whatever,  except  that  she 
had  been  able  to  assume  it. 

"  You  admit  that  one  ought  to  feel  conlenled,  do  you  not  ? "  per- 
sisted the  Curt!,  who  at  this  moment  felt  eminently  contented 
himself. 

"But  no,  indeed,"  answered  madame,  softening  the  bold  con- 
tradiction by  a  smile  ;  "lo  me  it  seems  not  good  to  be  too  easily 
satis^ed.  To  be  content,  par  exempU,  to  live  and  die  where  one 
was  bora — like  a  mushroom— to  know  nothing  of  the  big  world, 
only  one  hitlc  comer!  The  people  here,  they  are  like  the  mouse 
that  thinks  its  hole  is  the  universe.    They  have  no  ambition." 

"  In  that  madame  eomphnients  her  neighbours,  though  she  does 
not  mean  it.  Ambition  made  the  angels  to  fall  from  heaven," 
observed  the  Curt!, 

His  interlocutor  gave  a  faint  shrug  to  her  shoulders. 

"  Ah  !  I  know  not  what  may  he  good  for  the  angels,"  she  said, 
"  but  for  men  without  ambition,  they  grow  no  wiser,  no  richer,  ro 
greater,  no  different  from  generation  to  generation.  Still  water  is 
stagnanL" 

Save  by  a  dissentient  shake  of  the  head,  M.  le  Cur^  made  no 
rejoinder.  He  did  not  feel  equal  to  an  argument  on  this  or  any  other 
subject  with  Madame  Vandeleur.  Moreover,  he  knew  that  she  must 
always  have  the  last  word  ;  so  why  not  as  well  give  it  her  sooner  as 
later?  Actuated  by  this  relJection,  he  fell  into  discreet  silence.  As 
for  the  women,  they  had  hardly  comprehended  the  meaning  of  her 
remarks,  and  had  accordingly  no  comment  to  make  upon  them,  only 
that  presently  Annette  summed  up  the  impression  left  on  her  mind 
by  the  puzzhng  talk  in  these  words  : 

"  Ha  !  madame  is  clever.  IV'e  are  not  clever,  we  others — that 
makes  all  the  difference," 


MADAME   VANDELEUR'S   FiXE. 

"Ma  Tante,  have  you  forgotten  that  the  supper  is  now  served  ?  " 
This  inquiry,  addressed  to  her  a  few  seconds  later  by  a  brown- 
skinned  maiden  of  fourteen,  produced  an  instantaneous  effect  upon 
Madame  Marie  Vandeleur.  Recalling,  with  a  perceptible  start,  her 
duties  as  hostess,  that  strange  little  woman  brought  hack  her  dark 
eyes,  which  had  begun  to  ivander  from  point  to  pomt  oV  \!hcX\raS.ti 


( 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

landscape,  in  a  wistful,  uneasy  fashion,  familiar  to  her  neighbours' 
observation,  and  which  they  might  w-ith  justice  have  compared  to 
that  of  a  caged  wild  animal,  only  that  they  were  not  much  given  to 
the  use  of  metaphor  in  their  speech,  and,  moreover,  none  of  them  had 
ever  seen  a  wild  animal  in  a  cage. 

"Pardon!  a  thousand  pardons !"  she  exclaimed,  smoothing  a 
discontented  pucker  from  her  brow,  and  becoming  in  a  moment  all 
smiles  and  graciousness.  "  It  was  to  snmmon  you  to  supper  that  I 
came  forth.  M.  ie  Cur^,  do  me  the  honour  to  enter.  Mere  Cripin, 
you  must  sit  out  of  the  draught.  .  .  ,  But  where  is  Paul?  Paul, 
attend  now  that  everyone  is  comfortably  placed." 

"  Yes,  my  angel  ;  yes,  yes  1 "  responded  her  husband,  bustling 
obediently  forward,  and  proceeding,  with  great  politeness,  to  bestow 
the  guests  around  a  long  trestle  table  which  groaned  beneath  its 
hospitable  array  of  dishes. 

In  declaring  that  Madame  Vandeleur  was  clever,  Annette  Jalbcrt 
had  spoken  no  less  than  the  truth.  Madame  certainly  was  cle\'er — 
nith  a  cleverness  quite  independent  of  education,  in  the  technical 
sense— although,  in  passing,  it  may  bo  noted  that  she  was  also,  to  a 
certain  extent,  educated.  At  a  village  school  in  her  native  place — 
on  the  Beaufort  Slopes,  near  Quebec— she  had  learned  to  read  and 
write.  These  accomplishments  were  shared  with  her  by  no  woman, 
and  by  but  two  men  in  her  present  location,  to  wit,  the  priest  (though 
his  command  of  a  pen  was  more  a  question  of  faith  than  sight)  and 
another  individual,  of  whom  more  anon. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  such  exceptional  acquirements  helped  to 
give  her  distinction,  but  Madame's  real  vantage  ground  was  of  a 
more  occult  nature.  Her  claim  to  the  supremacy  she  had  assumed 
over  her  neighbours  could  not,  it  has  been  said,  very  easily  be 
defined.  One  way,  however,  by  which  she  managed  to  retain  it,  was 
palpable  enough,  i.e.,  she  always  did  cver)thing  belter  than  anyone 
else.  In  illustration  of  this  fact,  her  supper  this  evening — (the  meal, 
in  modem  parlance,  would  be  described  as  a  high  tea)— was  a 
triumph  of  culinary  skill  such  as  no  other  woman  in  the  village 
would  have  dreamt  of  approaching. 

"My  dear,  will  you  that  I  take  the  childien  upon  my  knee? 
There  remains  no  place  for  them  at  table,"  appealed  her  husband, 
when  all  the  guests  were  at  length  seated. 

"  No,  my  Paul."  Madame's  replies  always  came  without  hesita- 
tion. "I  do  not  intend  thai  the  children  sit  at  table.  They  will 
have  their  stools  in  the  corner  yonder,  and  Juhe  shall  attend  their 
wants.    Take  now  your  own  place," 


t 


The  Un/or£ii£H.  7 

She  patled,  as  she  spoke,  a  rough  pine-wood  chair  by  her  sice, 
and  Paul  sank  upon  it  without  a  word. 

A  huge,  broad-chested  fellow,  thirty-five  years  of  age,  and  over  six 
feet  in  height,  Paul  Vandeleur  possessed  neither  the  sallow  skin  nor 
the  dark  hair  common  to  French  Canadians.  On  the  contrary,  his 
complexion  was  fair  and  ruddy,  his  hair  light,  and  his  eyes  blue. 
Towering  like  a  giant  beside  his  frail  little  wife,  lie  looked  as  though 
It  would  be  easy  for  him  to  cnish  out  her  life  with  Iiis  iron  fists. 
Nevertheless,  as  Marie  knew,  she  could  make  him  tremble  by  a 
glance  of  her  eye  Like  a  tame  bear  she  led  him  about — holding 
him  with  an  iron  chain— garlanded  and  hidden,  however,  for  the 
most  part,  beneath  flowers  of  affection. 

But  to  compare  Paul  to  a  bear,  even  a  tame  one,  seems  in  truth 
a  little  absurd.  Certainly  there  was  nothing  bearish  in  his  nature. 
A  more  gentle,  simple  soul  never  existed.  Affectionate  in  disposi- 
lioo,  obtuse  of  mind,  ami  somewiiat  inert  in  his  habits,  he  had 
nothing  great  about  him  but  his  person. 

Such  as  he  was,  Paul,  with  the  Cur^  and  a  lame  old  man,  repre- 
sented— if  we  except  two  specimens  of  the  sex  (the  children  above 
rcfened  to)  too  small  to  count — the  entire  ntasculine  element  at  this 
entertainment. 

A  sprinkling  of  youllis,  it  is  true,  remained  in  the  village,  who 
had  not  been  invited  to  madame's  fete ;  but,  for  the  able-bodied  men, 
they  were  all  absent. 

Half  of  them — the  greater  half — had  left  the  settlement  several 
weeks  ago  for  trading  purposes,  travelling  down  to  Quebec  and 
Montreal  by  river,  and  living  during  the  journey  in  tents  or  huts 
built  upon  their  rafts.  The  other  half,  who  were  expected  to  return 
by  dusk,  had  gone  this  afternoon  into  the  woods  on  a  shooting  expe- 
dition of  sufficient  importance  to  warrant  a  neglect  even  of  Madame 
Vandeleui's  birthday  party.  For  only  that  morning  it  had  been 
discovered  that  a  herd  of  Caribou,  or  reindeer,  were  haunting  a 
natural  opening  or  glade  in  the  forest  some  five  miles  distant,  and 
as  there  was  a  magnificent  buck  amongst  them,  the  opportunity 
for  a  shot  was  too  valuable  lo  be  sacrificed  to  any  social  consider- 
ation. 

This  madame  herself  had  readily  admitted,  although,  lo  his 
great  chagrin,  she  had  kept  her  husband  at  home  in  his  capacity  as 
host. 

The  absence  of  their  male  relatives  did  not,  however,  appear  to 
tXCTCise  any  very  depressing  influence  upon  the  spirits  of  the  women. 

The  clatter  of  tongues  almost  drowned  that  of  knives  and  plates, 


I 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

and  the  long  low  room,  with  its  beam-crossed  ceiling,  reverberated  to 
the  cheerful  uproar.  But  by-and.bj',  conversation  began  to  dag, 
together  with  the  capacity  for  further  absorption,  and  the  quietude  of 
a  comfortable  repletion  settled  upon  the  guests.  Then  a  few  of  them, 
-marshalled  by  Paul  and  the  Cure,  went  out  to  inspect,  at  the  rear 
of  the  house,  an  addition  lo  their  host's  live  stock  in  tbeshape  of  two 
newly-born  calves. 

The  rest  of  the  women,  having  pushed  back  their  benches  from 
the  table,  produced  simultaneously  from  the  capacious  pockets  which 
adorned  each  of  their  striped  home-spun  gowns,  a  corresponding 
number  of  blue  worsted  stockings,  in  various  stages  of  progress,  and 
began  to  knit. 

Marie,  before  taking  up  her  own  work  (which,  in  accordance 
with  her  wonted  affectation  of  singularity,  would  certainly  not  be 
knitting),  was  directing  her  husband's  niece,  Julie  Nicaud,  how  to 
clear  away  the  remains  of  the  feast,  when  a  small  voice  at  her  elbow 
said  : 

"  Give  me  yet  another  piece  of  cake,  my  moiher,  for  the  little 
Claude." 

Madame  Vandeleur  caught  her  petitioner  in  her  arras,  gave  him  a 
warm  kiss,  and  set  him  again  upon  the  ground  before  replying — 

"  Thou  shalt  have  another  piece  for  thyself,  my  Louis,  because 
it  is  ihy  birthday.     But  Claude  has  eaten  enough." 

"  Mais,  non  !  "  faltered  the  child,  looking  with  trouble  instead  of 
pleasure  at  the  gift  in  his  hand.  "  He  loves  sweet  cake  so  dearly ! 
At  least  permit  that  I  divide  it  with  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  take  thy  own  way,  little  fool,"  assented  his  mother. 
"The  child  would  give  his  head  for  the  other  to  play  with,  I  truly 
believe,"  she  continued,  addressing  the  group  of  women  nearest  her. 

"  Ah,  mon  Dicu,  he  is  a  Uttle  seraph  '.  He  is  a  child  among  a 
thousand  I  "  protested  one  ready  flatterer. 

"  Adorable  ! "  ejaculated  a  second.  "  And  how  like  his  father  he 
grows — more  like  everyday — though,  if  one  may  judge,  he  will  never 
be  so  tall." 

"  I  don't  wish  him  lo  be  so  tall,"  returned  madame — quite  as 
though  she  bad  the  ordering  of  that  event  in  her  own  hands. 

"  It  is  singular,  madame,"  observed  another  woman,  "but  the 
little  Claude  he  resembles  you  more  than  your  own  boy.  Perhaps  it 
is  that  he  has  the  eyes  so  dark  and  the  figure  so  petit," 

"  I  do  not  see  that  he  resembles  me  at  all,"  rejoined  Marie, 
rather  tartly ;  "  naturally  he  Is  smaller  than  Louis,  since  he  is  nearly 
two  years  younger." 


J 


I 


"  True,  true,"  acquiesced  the  other— afraid  that  lier  remark  had  not 
been  altogether  agreeable.  "  But,  regardez  done,  how  he  caresses  tiie 
little  one  !  With  such  tenderness,  what  a  blessing  he  will  be  lo 
nudame  through  life  '.  "  A  gracious  inclination  of  the  head  was  the 
only  acknowledgment  Madame  Vandeleur  vouchsafed  to  this  pre- 
diction ;  and,  for  several  minutes,  she  and  her  interlocutors  regarded 
in  silence  the  two  children,  who  were  seated  together  on  a  bearskin 
mat  at  some  distance,  wholly  absorbed  in  each  other  and  in  the 
suitable  division  of  their  cake. 

Five  years  of  age  to-day,  little  Louis  was  the  first-bom,  and  now 
only  child,  of  Paul  and  Marie  Vandeleur.  Three  other  children  had 
followed  him:  only,  however,  after  some  weeks,  or  months  respectively, 
t>(  puling  existence,  lo  be  carried  in  succession  to  the  churchyard. 

Fair-haired  and  blue-eyed,  like  his  father,  this  remaining  ohve- 
branch  appeared,  however,  to  be  in  the  sturdiest  health,  and  likely 
enough  to  live. 

As  for  the  other  boy  (alluded  to  as  Claude),  he  was  in  no  way 
related  to  the  pair.  Nevertheless  he  had  now  lived  in  their  house 
for  nine  months,  and  had  learned,  in  imitation  of  his  devotedly 
attached  playmate,  to  call  Marie  "mother." 

About  this  child — a  dark-eyed  little  urchin  of  three,  all  life  and 
mischief-— or,  more  correctly  speaking,  about  this  child's  father,  all 
the  curiosity  of  the  village  centred.  Hubert  Henry  Stephens  was- 
in  many  respects  a  greater,  and,  at  all  events,  a  much  mncer 
mj-stery  to  ita  inhabitants  than  Madame  Vandeleur  herself.  She, 
madame,  at  least  spoke  their  own  language,  and  belonged  to  their 
own  race.  Her  parents,  as  they  knew  from  Paul,  were — notwith- 
standing her  inexplicable  superiority — merely  simple  peasants  like 
themselves.  But  this  stranger  who  had  come  amongst  them,  although 
a  subject  of  the  same  realm,  was  practically  a  foreigner. 

To  be  sure,  he  spoke  sufficient  French  to  make  himself  under- 
stood, but  it  was  with  a  strong  English  .-icccnt,  and  he  made  no 
secret  of  his  nationality.  Of  other  things,  however,  he  made  secrets 
enough.  For,  when  they  had  said  that  he  was  an  Englishman,  and 
when  the  men  had  opined  (from  a  dim  perception  of  difference  be- 
tween him  and  other  Englishmen  with  whom  they  had  come  into 
contact  on  their  summer  journeys)  that,  despite  his  poverty,  he 
belonged  to  the  /laute  nobUise — they  had  got  lo  the  end  of  nearly 
all  that  could  be  said  of  him.  The  few  additional  f^icts  whereof 
iheir  senses  and  observation  informed  them  were,  that  he  was 
young,  good-looking,  and  passionately  fond  of  his  child.  But 
■where  he  came  from,  who  were  his  relatives,  whether  or  not  the 


lo  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

child  had  a  mother,  and  why  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  this 
out-of-the-way  comer  of  the  globe,  no  one  knew,  or  could  find  out 
It  was  in  the  early  fall  of  the  year,  just  nine  months  ago,  that 
Hubert  Stephens  had  first  made  his  appearance  in  the  district 
He  had  joined  the  "  lumberers ''  at  a  little  station  part  way  up 
the  river,  in  a  footsore  condition,  carrying  his  child  and  a  bundle. 
Producing  money,  he  lud  offered  to  pay  for  a  seat  in  one  of  their 
boats,  and  after  learning  from  the  men  all  about  their  settlement, 
had  expressed  his  intention  of  going  with  them  there,  and  becom- 
ing a  backwoodsman  himself,  Thus  he  had  arrived,  but  instead 
of  erecting  a  dwelling  for  himself,  he  had  become  a  lodger  with  the 
Vandeleurs — building  an  additional  room  to  their  house^  and  paying 
madame  (in  money,  so  long  as  a  slender  stock  of  that  commodity 
lasted,  and  afterwards  in  labour)  for  her  care  of  his  child.  But 
whilst  he  had  felled,  ploughed,  and  hunted  with  the  rest  of  the  men, 
living,  uncomplaining,  the  primitive  life  of  the  colony,  Mr.  Stephens 
had  proved  singularly  reticent  as  to  his  antecedents.  He  had  simply 
told  his  companions  nothing  about  himself  or  his  past  life,  even 
when  the  long  winter  evenings  and  the  warm  fire- side  had  invited 
to  communicativeness.  With  unfailing  good-humour,  he  had  parried 
all  questions  and  baffled  all  curiosity.  In  the  aggregate  the  settle- 
ment could  not  boast  a  very  large  amount  of  the  latter  quality, 
but  fully  one  half  of  what  it  did  possess,  appertained  to  Madame 
Vandeleur.  Yet  Madame  was  no  wiser  than  other  people  concern- 
ing her  lodger,  though  she  had  used  persistent  efforts  to  make  herself 
so.  Always  sweet-tempered  and  obliging,  but,  at  times,  very  sad, 
the  young  Englishman's  chief  delight  seemed  to  be  to  sit  with 
his  boy  on  his  knee,  softly  talking  with  the  little  fellow  in  his  own 
tongue.  What  few  words,  however,  madame  had  been  able  to 
make  out  of  their  conversation  (they  were  only  a  zfery  few  words), 
had  taught  her  nothing.  And  in  fact,  that]  this  alien,  this  interloper, 
had  been  able  to  resist  her  attempts  to  discover  something  of  his 
history  and  motive  in  lingering  here,  was  the  source  of  a  great, 
though  secret,  annoyance  to  Madame  Vandeleur.  Others  might 
submit  to  be  baffled,  but  it  was  a  thing  to  which  she  was  not 
accustomed. 

But  to  have  acknowledged  herself  in  any  way  discomfited,  would 
not  have  suited  Marie's  policy.  When,  therefore,  her  neighbours 
aired,  in  her  presence,  their  placid  wonderment  concerning  "  Mon- 
sieur Steefen,"  as  they  called  him,  the  little  woman  professed  to 
see  nothing  much  to  wonder  at.  "Why  was  he  living  here?" 
**WeU,  she  supposed  he  must  live  somewhere."    ♦*  Wherefore  had 


The  Unforeseen.  ii 

he  left  his  own  country?  How  had  he  come  to  be  poor,  and  in 
need  to  work  with  his  hands — he  who  had  the  air  so  distinguished  ?  " 
'*  Ah  !    fortune  was  uncertain.     Life  had  many  ups  and  downs. 

What  signified  it  to  put  such  questions  ?    Let  the  poor  man  keep 

« 

his  own  secrets." 

With  such  words,  and  a  gesture  expressive  of  indifference, 
madame  was  accustomed  to  reprove  her  neighbours'  curiosity  and 
to  conceal  the  disappointment  of  her  own.  On  this  evening  of 
her  birthday,  she  checked,  even  more  determinately  than  usual,  an 
inclination  which  manifested  itself  on  the  part  of  her  guests  to  make 
the  little  Claude  and  his  absent  parent  (Stephens  had  gone  with 
the  Caribou  hunters  to  the  woods)  the  subject  of  discussion  and 
random  surmise.  As,  however,  she  took  the  trouble  to  introduce 
other  topics  and  to  keep  them  going,  there  was  no  lack  of  talk  to 
the  click  of  the  women's  needles. 

Then  presently,  as  the  twilight  began  to  fall,  talk  was  superseded 
by  music.  Gathered  outside  the  open  door,  a  number  of  the  younger 
women,  led  by  Paul  and  the  Cur^ — whose  voice,  even  in  his  sixtieth 
year,  was  wonderfully  powerful — proceeded  to  give  madame  her 
usual  birthday  serenade.  The  voices,  to  which. that  little  distance 
certainly  lent  sweetness,  if  not  enchantment,  rose  first  in  the  National 
Air  of  the  Canadian-French — "  La  Claire  Fontaine."  After  that  fol- 
lowed a  weird  camp-melody,  with  a  long-drawn  sighing  refrain,  and 
then,  with  a  brief  pause  between,  the  Canadian  boat-song,  made 
familiar  by  its  English  translation — "  Row,  brothers,  row." 

By  the  time  this  stage  of  the  vocal  concert  was  reached  the  two 
children  had  fallen  asleep  in  each  other's  arms,  curled  up  on  their 
bearskin  mat  in  the  comer,  and  the  features  of  the  women — still 
softly  clicking  their  needles — were  fast  growing  indistinguishable. 

Madame  Vandeleur  was  just  considering  whether  or  not  she  would 
wait  for  the  conclusion  of  the  verses  before  procuring  a  light,  when 
one  of  the  singers,  putting  in  her  head,  announced — 

"  Ah  !  madame,  they  come  at  last,  the  men  !  We  see  them  but 
a  little  way  off.  And  they  must  have  shot,  at  least,  one  deer,  for 
they  carry  something  heavy.  Also,  they  are  coming  straight  here. 
Perhaps  it  is  that  they  mean  to  make  madame  a  present  of  what  they 
have  caught — seeing  that  it  is  her  fete." 

**  Chut,  chut,  Babette — that  is  nonsense  ! "  answered  her  hostess. 
"  But,  at  all  events,  we  will  have  a  light,  that  we  may  see  each  other's 
faces." 


I 


12  The  Geniieman's  Magazine. 

Chapter  III. 

"you   see  I   AM    DYING," 

Mo  IT  N  TING  without  delay  upon  a.  wooden  stool,  Madame 
Vandeleur  soon  succeeded  in  kindling  an  oil  lamp,  of  very  primitive 
description,  which  hung  suspended  from  the  ceiling.  She  had  not, 
however,  descended  from  her  perch,  before  a  sudden  cessation  of  the 
singing,  followed  by  a  chorus  of  excited  and  troubled  exclamations, 
advertised  her  that  something  was  amiss. 

In  a  moment  her  active  mind  had  leaped  to  a  correct  conclusion. 
"Alasl"she  interjected,  "some  one  has  been  hunt  That  is  no 
game,  I  fear,  that  the  men  carry  1" 

Scarcely  had  these  words  left  her  lips  before  the  room  was  in  wild 
commotion. 

Springing  to  their  feet,  the  women  crowded  towards  the  door, 
elbowing  each  other  as  they  went,  and  calling  out  in  varying  accents 
of  alarm,  the  names  of  their  respective  husbands,  brothers,  or  lovers. 

'I'hen  Madame  Vandeleur  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"  My  friends,"  she  cried  in  a  firm  voice,  "  come  back  this  instant ! 
Let  there  be  no  disturbance.  Resume  your  seats  for  a  moment,  if  you 
please  ;  and  suffer  me  to  learn  quietly  for  you  if  anytliing  is  wrong. 
There,  that  is  well ! "  she  continued,  as  the  women  obeyed  to  the 
extent  of  moving  back  and  allowing  her  to  get  in  front  of  them. 
"  Paul,  art  thou  there  ?     Tell  me  quickly  what  has  happened." 

"  My  Marie,"  answered  her  husband,  stepping  forward  from  the 
agitated  little  circle  which  had  formed  around  the  new-comers  and 
their  burden.  "It  is  the  Englishman.  He  has  met,  God  pity  him, 
a  shocking  accident." 

"  You  hear,  my  friends,  it  is  none  of  our  people.  Now  you  can 
afford  to  be  calm,"  put  in  Marie.     "  How  came  the  accident,  Paul  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  attacked  by  a  bear,  they  say.  I  know  not  yet  all 
the  circumstances — only  he  is  frightfully  injured." 

"But  not  dead?" 

"No,  not  dead  yet,"  rejoined  Paul.  "But  .  .  .  ."  He  paused 
significantly,  and  stood  aside  to  allow  passage  to  four  men  who  were 
now  moving  forward  again,  carrying  between  them  a  litter  roughly 
constructed  of  interwoven  boughs.  Stretched  upon  that  litter,  with 
the  hues  of  death  already  on  his  face,  lay  the  poor  young  English- 
man, who,  though  he  had  dwelt  among  them  so  long,  was  lo  those 
around  him  but  as  an  unknown  stranger. 

Casualties  of  vaiious  kinds  were  not  imcommon  in  the  settler's 


I 

I 


I 


The  Unforeseen.  13 

hard  life,  and  naturally  the  women  felt  relieved  to  find  their  kinsmen 
safe  from  such  ills  as  their  imaginations  had  been  conjuring  up.  This 
relief,  however,  did  not  prevent  a  gush  of  hearty  sympathy  for  the 
imforiunate  sufferer.  Pressing  around  the  litter,  with  gesticulations 
and  ejaculations  of  dismay,  every  one  sought  to  gain  a  glimpse  of  that 
drawn,  death-like  face.  Through  this  crowding  and  pressing,  it  hap- 
pened, somehow,  that  a  garment  which  had  been  thrown  over  the 
injured  man  was  dragged  away.  The  sight  thus  disclosed  curdled 
the  blood  of  the  spectators  with  horror. 

His  clothes  in  ribbons,  poor  Stephens'  left  side  appeared  one 
mass  of  gaping  wounds.  His  arm,  torn  from  the  socket,  and  well- 
nigh  severed  from  his  body,  was  hid  across  his  breast.  Some  attempt 
had  been  made  to  staunch  the  flow  of  blood,  but  the  vital  fluid 
essped  with  every  instant,  and  fell  in  a  trickling  stream  to  the  ground. 
That  he  could  live  thus  lacerated  seemed  impossible,  and  shocked 
cries  broke  from  every  lip.  Roused  by  those  cries  from  a  swoon  of 
exhaustion  into  which  he  sunk,  Hubert  Stephens  suddenly  opened 
his  eyes  and  attempted  to  raise  himself  on  the  litter. 

"  At  last !  We  are  here  at  last ! "  he  gasped,  looking  round. 
"  But  what  are  all  these  people  doing  ?  Madame  Vandeleur — I  want 
Madame  Vandeleur  ! "  he  added,  with  imjiatient  anxiety. 

"  Here  1  am,  mon  pauvre  ami,  here  I  am  !  "  respouded  the  little 
woman,  stepping  to  his  side,  .-^n  expression  of  relief  crossed  the 
Englishman's  face. 

"Madame,"  he  broke  forth,  hunicdiy,  "lam,  you  see,  dying. 
But  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  firsi.  I  cannot,  I  mmt  not  die 
without  speaking.  Let  them  carry  me  to  my  room  ;  and  come  you 
and  Paul  with  me — you  two  alone — quickly  !  " 

"And  our  good  father,  also?"  suggested  Paul,  designating  the 
Cur^,     "You  would  like  that  he  came  also?  " 

"  No,  no  !  Let  him  pray  for  me,  if  he  will,"  answered  Stephens ; 
"but,  as  you  know,  I  belong  not  to  your  Communion.  Waste 
no  time !  waste  no  further  time !  Carry  me  away  from  all  these 
eyes." 

"  No  !  waste  no  further  time  ! "  echoed  Madame  Vandeleur,  im- 
peratively. "Bring  him  here,  and  lay  him  upon  his  bed,  whilst  I 
procure  some  brandy.  Now,  my  neighbours,"  she  continued,  closing 
the  door  of  her  lodger's  chamber  after  (hose  who  had  passed  in, 
"  you  must  disperse — you  must  disperse  immediately — for  the  house 
must  be  quiet.  Ouiside,  the  men  will  relate  to  you  how  this  dreadful 
thing  has  happened,  and  then  you  can  return  every  one  to  her  o«n 
home.     Only  Annette  Jalbert  will  please  staj',  because  I  may  want 


^  The  Gentleman' s  Magazine, 

help.  And  M.  k  Cure"  (she  glanced  towards  that  worthy  man, 
who  was  already  on  his  knees  in  a  comer  of  the  room,  reciting  the 
prayers  of  his  church  for  the  dying);  "  M.  le  Cure  will  remain  if  be 
chooses.  Now  go,  go  all  of  you ! "  slie  concluded,  with  an  im- 
perious wave  of  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  yes,  without  doubt,  if  you  desire  it,"  rejoined  one  of  the 
party,  speaking  for  the  rest  "  You  have  reason.  It  will  be  better 
that  the  house  be  left  quiet,  Bon  soir,  madaniej  and  God  help  the 
poor  M.  Steefen  ! " 

"  Amen  !  amen ! "  came  the  jiious  responses,  as  wooden  sabots 
clattered,  as  softly  as  their  owners  could  make  them,  across  the 
wooden  floor. 

Arrived  at  a  short  distance  from  the  house,  the  departing  guests 
paused,  and  again  grouping  themselves  in  a  circle,  proceeded  to  ques- 
tion their  male  companions  concerning  the  tragedy  that  had  occurred. 
Their  report,  condensed  into  a  few  words,  was  this  ; 
On  reaching,  with  their  dogs  and  guns,  the  opening  in  the  forest 
for  which  they  were  bound,  the  hunters  had  seen  traces  enough  of  the 
game  whereof  they  were  in  search.  It  was  a  full  hour,  however, 
before  their  eager  watching  was  rewarded  by  the  lirst  sight  of  a  Cari- 
bou. Then,  bursting  cover  close  in  front  of  them,  appeared  a  noble 
stag,  at  least  seven  feet  high,  followed  by  three  or  four  companions. 
Dogs  and  men  at  once  gave  chase,  and  the  stag,  slightly  wounded, 
and  infuriated  by  the  pain,  presently  turned  to  bay.  All  the  hunters, 
save  three,  stopped  to  encounter  this  proud  antagonisL  Of  those 
three,  two  pursued  a  flying  deer  in  one  direction,  whilst  a  third 
—the  Englishman— followed,  quite  alone,  after  the  rest  of  the  flock 
in  another.  Pierced  by  many  bullets,  the  "  lord  of  the  herd "  at 
length  fell,  but  the  moment  was  a  dangerous  one,  and  neither  men 
nor  dogs  durst  yet  approach  too  near  those  magnificent  antlers  or 
sinewy  limbs.  Watching  at  a  safe  distance,  they  were  wailing  until 
the  large  dark  eyes  grew  dim  and  glazed  and  the  panting  frame  stif- 
fened in  death,  when  the  sound  of  a  human  voice,  in  an  anguished 
cry  for  "  help  !  help  !  "   broke  upon  their  startled  ears. 

Leaving  their  fallen  foe  to  die  unregarded,  the  hunters  rushed 
forthwith  towards  the  spot  whence  that  cry  seemed  to  proceed. 
Repeated  cries  guided  Ihem  ;  and  crashing  through  the  undergrowth 
that  lay  between,  they  found  themselves  shortly  in  a  little  grassy 
opening  which  ran  off,  like  an  arm,  from  the  winding  forest  glade. 
There,  partially  intrenched  behind  a  tree,  which  rose  a  solitary  giant 
in  the  midst  of  the  tiny  amphitheatre,  appeared  a  man  engaged  in 
mortal  combat  with  a  huge  grizzly  bear.    The  bear,  reared  against 


The  Un/oreieen.  15 

ihe  opposite  side  of  the  trunk,  had  pinned  the  man  to  it  by  the 
clasp  of  hia  heavy  paw,  whilst  grasping  the  stock  of  his  gun,  from 
which  all  the  shot  had  been  discharged,  the  unfortunate  Stephens, 
for  he  it  was,  was  frantically  endeavouring  lo  beat  off  the  hideous         ' 
brute  u-ith  the  butt-end  of  the  weapon.     Evidently,  however,  his        J 
strength  was  becoming  exhausted,  and  just  as  his  rt'scuers  appeared        1 
upon  the  scene,  Ihe  bear  succeeded  in  dragging  his  prey  round  the        | 
tree.     Then  ensued  a  horrible  struggle.     Poor  Stephens'  ribs  were 
heard  to  crash,  as  tlie  grizzly  threw  his  ponderous  weight  upon  him, 
and  man  and  beast  rolled  togelhcr  upon  the  ground.     To  aim  at  the 
one  without  endangering  iht;  other  was  impossible,  and  for  several 
seconds  the  men  hestiated  to  shoot.     Seeing,  however,  thai  this  was 
their  only  chance,  for  the  bear  paid  no  heed  to  the  frantic  shouts 
with  which  they  sought  to  disturb  him,  they  at  length  fired.     Greatly 
to  their  joy,  ihey  perceived  that  the  shots  had  taken  effect.  The  bear 
turned  over  mortally  wounded,    But  alas,  even  in  his  death-struggle, 

Phc  did  not  release  his  hold  of  the  man,  but,  burying  his  fangs  in  his 
shoulder,  tore  savagely  with  his  claws  at  the  poor  dislocated  arm. 
When,  eventually,  the  distressed  hunters  were  able  !o  liberate  him 
from  that  ferocious  embrace,  ihey  saw  at  once  that  the  injuries  he  1 
had  received  were  of  so  serious  a  nature  that  they  must  of  necessity 
prove  fatal     This  Stephens  also  felt.     After  murmuring  something 

■  in  his  own  tongue,  he  implored  his  companions  to  carry  him  home 
without  delay.  There  were  things,  he  declared,  which  he  must  say 
to  Madame  Vandeleur  before  his  death,  arrangements  and  directions 
which  he  must  leave  with  her  conceniing  his  child.  And  so 
importunate  had  he  proved  on  this  score,  that  the  kind-hearted  men, 
leaving  the  valuable  prize  they  had  slain  to  the  wolves,  had  hastened 
to  construct  the  litter  already  referred  to,  and  relieving  each  other  by 

■  tuiSE,  had  made  what  speed  they  could  back  through  the  woods. 
But  five  miles  of  forest  travelling,  with  a  heavy  burden,  is  not 
easily  accomplished,  and  before  ihe  settlement  was  gained  poor 
Stephens  had  ceased  lo  urge  them  forward  with  each  step,  a-id, 
happily  for  them  as  well  as  himself,  had  sunk  into  temporary 
unconsciousness.  Such,  briefly  repeated,  was  the  story  to  which  the 
women  listened.  But  as  they  heard  it  (with  much  unnecessary 
detail  and  recapitulation  on  the  men's  part,  and  endless  interruption 
for  sympathetic  comment  and  inquiry  on  their  own)  the  story  was 
not  brief. 

Long  ere  it  was  ended  the  twilight  had  deepened  into  the  early 
summer  night.     A  glorious  moon,  however,  had  risen,  and  alihougli 
^H      the  air  began  to  feel  chilly,  the  peasants  did  not  yet  attempt  to       1 


Tlte  Gentlenians  Magazitu. 


disperse.  They  stood  there,  with  their  dark  eyes,  olive  complexions. 
and  quaint  dress,  making  a  picturesque  group  in  the  moonlight. 

All  around  ibem  nature  had  grown  silent,  save  for  such  sounds 
as  made  that  silence  felt — the  faint  rippling  of  the  lake  against  its 
banks  and  tlie  sighing  of  a  vagrant  wind  amidst  the  tops  of  the  pine- 
trees.  In  the  mystic  effulgence  which  now  bathed  it,  the  wood-girt 
solitude,  with  its  dotting  habitations  and  still  corn-fields,  seemed, 
too,  to  have  acquired  a  new  beauty,  a  strange  solemnity. 

The  spirit  of  the  scene  and  the  hour  settled  gradually  upon  the 
minds  and  senses  of  the  unsophisticated  and  emotional  people,  who 
felt,  although  they  could  not  analyse  it.  Voices  softened,  and  then 
sank  to  a  whisper,  till,  by-and-by,  the  whole  group  stood  gazing  in 
almost  total  silence  towards  the  light  from  the  oil  lamp,  which  still 
shone  behind  Madame  Vandeleiir's  uncurtained  window,  And  even 
whilst  they  gazed,  the  angel  of  death  was  already  descending  on 
dark,  invisible  wings  into,  that  still,  tranquil-looking  abode. 


"  MILLIONS   OF   DOLLARS." 

Meanwhile,  having  dismissed  her  guests  and  sought  for  a 
treasured  flask  of  brandy,  kept  only  as  medicine,  Madame  Vande- 
ieur  passed  into  her  lodger's  chamber.  To  her  surprise,  she  found 
the  dying  man  sitting  up  in  bed,  propped  against  her  husband's 
sturdy  shoulder,  and  endeavouring,  with  his  uninjured  right  hand,  to 
transcribe  some  lines  upon  a  sheet  of  paper  which  Paul  held  in  front 
of  him.  The  effort,  however,  was  evidently  costing  him  e.tcruciating 
agony.  Huge  drops  of  perspiration,  bursting  from  his  brow,  kept 
rolling  down  his  pallid  face,  whilst  every  now  and  then  the  com- 
jiressed  lips  were  opened  to  emit  an  involuntary  groan. 

"  Don't  speak  !  don't  speak  ! "  he  implored,  in  answer  to  Marie's 
earnest  remonstrance.  "  I  have  nearly  done.  Let  me  finish!"  But, 
even  as  he  uttered  this  prayer,  the  letters  he  was  forming  ran  into 
one  another,  and  the  pencil  slipped  from  his  nerveless  grasp. 

Mistaking  the  fainting  fit  for  death,  Paul,  whose  mild  blue  eyes 
were  blinded  by  sympathetic  te.irs,  began  to  give  vent  to  loud 
expressions  of  grief.  But  silencing  him  with  a  word,  Madame  Van- 
deleur  stooped  lo  administer  the  brandy,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the 
patient  revived. 

His   first  action  was  to  take   the  pencil  again   in   hand,  and, 


I 

I 


The  Un/oreseen. 

efter  begging  ?3m\  to  fold  the  paper,  to  write  on  the  back  of  it  an 
address. 

Can  you  read  that?"  he  asked  Madame  Vandeleur.  "Is  i| 
plain  ?  " 

inswer  she  took  the  note  and  repeated  tlie  direction  aloud. 
It  was  that  of  a  "  Miss  Estcourt,"  with  the  name  of  a  house  and 
street   which  madamc  knew  to  be  in  the  most  fashionable  quarter 
of  Quebec, 

Right,  quite  right !  "  sighed  the  poor  young  Englishnian — suf- 
fering himself  to  be  laid  back  upon  his  pillows.  "  Now,  I  want  you 
to  promise  me,  Paul,  that  you  will  take  that  letter  yourself  to  Miss 
Estcourt,  and  deliver  it  into  her  own  hands.  Promise  it  on  your 
solemn  word  of  honour  !  Oh,  madame,  I  entreat  you,  as  a  dying 
man,  allow  him  to  promise  it  !  " 

"  Monsieur,"  protested  the  tender-hear  led  giant,  without  await- 
ing his  wife's  permission,  "I  promise — I  will  lake  the  letter." 

"  Ves,  he  shall  take  it,"  assented  Marie.  "But"  (she  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  curiosity  got  the  belter  of  more  creditable  senti- 
ments) "who  is  Miss  Estcourt i*  " 

"  She  is  ...  .  No,  I  will  not  break  my  word  I  You  will  learn 
from  herself,  perhaps.  Tell  her  all  about  my  death,  Paul.  She 
vill  pay  the  expense  of  your  journey.  And,  madame,  she  will  take 
(.harge  of  the  child— of  my  boy,  But  keep  him  with  you  until  you 
hear  ftom  her,  until  she  sends  you  directions  about  him.  And,  dear 
madame,  be  good  to  him — for  God's  sake,  be  good  to  him  !  " 

"  My  poor  friend,  rest  satisfied  on  that  score.  The  child  sh.ill 
be  to  me  as  my  own,"  affirmed  Marie,  in  cordial  good  faith. 

A  grateful  smile  lit  up  the  dying  man's  face.  It  was  a  face 
strangely  out  of  harmony  with  his  surroundings,  bearing  on  it,  as 
tt  did,  the  marks  of  culture  and  refinement  no  less  than  of  patrician 
lineage. 

"  Thank  you  !  Thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  1  "  he 
murmured,  putting  out  his  hand  to  clasp  hers.  "But  I  have 
more  to  say — the  most  important  thing  of  all.  In  that  chest"  (he 
loosened  his  fingers  to  point  to  a  rough  wooden  box  of  bis  own  con- 
struction)— "  at  the  bottom  of  that  chest  you  will  find  a  small 
leathern  case.  The  key  of  the  case  is  here."  He  raised  his  hand, 
and  began  to  fumble  about  his  breast,  but  desisted  through  weak- 
ness, "You  can  look  for  it  afterwards,"  he  subjoined  pathetically. 
"  That  case  and  the  key  must  be  taken  to  Miss  Estcourt  along  with 
toy  note.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance — Eemetnba;  the  case  is  pf 
4he  utmost  importance.  It  contains  only  papers  ;  but,  Uswu  \  .  .  .  . 
ccLi'iit.     NO.  i84g. 


1 8  The  GentUmatis  Magazine. 

(Madame  Vandeleur  bent  her  ear  to  catch  the  failing  utterance 
which  was  every  moment  growing  more  feeble),  "  those  papers  are 
worth  more  than  I  can  explain.  They  are  worth  to  my  boy  millions 
of  dollars — millions  of  dollars  !  " 

An  astonished  ejaculation  rose  to  Marie's  lips ;  but  checking  the 
expression  of  it,  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  My  poor  friend,"  she  repeated,  **  I  comprehend  well.  All 
that  you  have  said  shall  be  done.     Rest  satisfied  of  it." 

"  I  do.  I  will.  Madame,  I  trust  you  !  And  now  I  can  die.  .  . 
Only  let  me  see  him  once  more    .  .  ." 

"  The  good  father?  Yes,  yes  ! "  cried  Paul,  whose  simple  piety 
and  faith  in  priestly  efficacy  bordered  on  superstition. 

"  Paul,  sit  still.  Thou  art  a  goose,"  commanded  the  more  astute 
wife  ;  and  hastily  (luitting  the  room,  she  caught  up  ^the  sleeping 
Claude  and  returned  with  him  in  her  arms. 

A  faint  movement  of  the  head  and  another  flickering  smile 
thanked  her.  Marie  held  the  child  down  to  him,  in  order  that  the 
poor  young  father  (Hubert  Stephens  was  not  yet  twenty-seven) 
might  embrace  him. 

But  already  the  lips  that  pressed  that  soft  baby  cheek  were  cold 
and  clammy,  and  the  little/ellow,  moaning  impatiently  in  his  sleep, 
shrank  back  and  turned  to  nestle  against  Marie's  breast. 

**  Ah  !  pardon  him,"  begged  the  latter  soothingly.  "  The  poor 
innocent,  he  knows  not  what  he  does.  See,  I  will  sit  where  you  can 
see  him  ! "  And  motioning  Paul  away,  she  placed  herself  close  by 
his  side,  turning  the  boy's  face  to  his  dying  father's  gaze. 

Poor  Stephens  regarded  him  with  a  lingering  look  of  deep 
affection* 

"  My  child,  my  child ! "  he  faltered  in  English,  but  almost  in- 
audibly.  "  No,  he  knows  not !  But  it  is  better  for  him  that  I  should 
die.  Now  they  can  forgive,  and  he  will  get  his  rights.  .  .  .  Poor 
Claudia,  too,  perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  when  she  knows.  .  .  .  Ah,  my 
life  has  not  been  a  success.  .  .  .  Let  the  wreck  go  down  .  .  I  .  . 
I  do  not  regret  it.  ..." 

An  hour  later,  the  last  rites  had  been  performed.  The  crushed 
and  mangled  body  had  been  decently  shrouded  ;  the  Cure  and 
Annette  Jalbert  had  joined  the  waiting  peasants  outside,  and  were 
relating  to  them  how  the  end  had  come — how  he  who  had  been 
amongst  them  as  a  stranger,  had  left  them  as  a  stranger,  with  the 
secrets  of  his  history,  whatever  they  might  be,  unrevealed.  Of  this, 
which  was  certainly  the  truth,  if  not  the  entire  truth,  Madame  Van- 
deleur had  assured  them.    For  the  little  woman  had  kept  back,  and 


The  Unforeseen.  19 

had  bidden  her  husband  keep  back,  whatever  could  be  learned  or 
guessed  through  that  death-bed  conference. 

**  And  now,  my  Paul,  go  thou  to  rest,"  said  Marie,  directly  they 
were  left  alone,  "  and  I  will  place  the  children  in  their  cot  by  thy 
side.  As  for  me,  I  could  not  sleep ;  I  shall  remain  here  and 
watch." 

Expostulation  against  this  decision  upon  Paul's  part  ended  (as 

any  attempt  to  shake  an  expressed  resolution  of  his  wife's  usually 

did)  in  failure.     Quietly,  but  persistently,  madame  stuck  to  her 

point ;  and,  obliged  to  give  way,  Paul  retired,  vowing,  however, 

that  he  could  not  sleep  himself  so  long  as  he  knew  her  to  be  sitting 

up. 

This  protestation  notwithstanding,  the  good  fellow  had  scarcely 

laid  his  head  upon  his  pillow  before  his  deep  and  sonorous  breath- 
ing attested  to  the  fact  of  profound  slumber.  Through  the  half-closed 
door,  that  sound  reached  Madame  Vandeleur,  where  she  sat  in  the 
adjoining  room,  her  arms  folded  upon  the  table  before  her — thinking. 
Strange  thoughts  they  were  that  passed  through  the  little  woman's 
mind — ^kindling  her  dark  eyes  until  they  shone  in  the  ilUlighted  room 
like  lambent  stars,  and  blanching  into  more  striking  pallor  her 
already  pale  face. 

And  by-and-by,  those  thoughts  became  something  more  than 
thoughts.  Imperceptibly  they  formulated  themselves  into  a  temp- 
tation— 2l,  temptation  at  first  weak  and  formless,  but  which  grew  with 
each  moment  more  explicit  and  more  fierce. 

Ever  since  they  had  been  breathed  into  her  bent  ear — her  ear 
alone  (for  Paul,  she  had  ascertained,  had  not  caught  them) — three 
words  spoken  by  the  dead  man  had  been  ringing  incessant  changes, 
like  tormenting  bells,  in  Marie  Vandeleur's  brain.  **  Millions  of 
dollars  !  millions  of  dollars  " ! 

Dollars  !  millions  of  dollars  !  What  did  the  words  mean  ?  What 
did  the  thing  they  represented  mean  ?  Rather,  what  did  it  not  mean 
for  the  happy  possessor  ?  How  much  would  it  mean  for  Marie  her- 
self were  she  the  possessor  ? 

It  might  mean — it  would  mean — in  the  first  place,  escape  from 
this  solitary  spot,  and  from  the  rigorous  inclemency  of  another  Cana- 
dian winter.  Yes,  it  would  mean  a  warmer  climate,  a  wider  world, 
more  congenial  associates.  It  would  mean  novel  and,  at  present, 
incalculable  experiences.  It  would  mean  power — power  of  various 
kinds — dear  to  Marie's  heart  Within  herself,  the  little  woman  felt 
that  she  was  bom  for  eminence  and  distinction.  With  such  a 
craving  as  she  possessed  for  these  things,  it  was  out  of  nature  that 


I 


20  The  Gcntlemaii s  Magazine. 

they  should  be  denied  lier.  Yet  wliat  eminence — what  distinction 
was  to  be  had  worth  the  having — without  the  "almighty  dollar"? 

Not,  of  course,  that  Madame  Vandeleor  used  this  expression  in 
her  reflections;  since,  to  begin  with,  her  reflections  were  clothed  in 
the  French  language,  and  moreover,  the  expression  was  probably  not 
invented  at  ihat  dale.  But  she  knew  and  recognised  the  potency  of 
gold  just  as  well  as  though  she  had  called  it  "  almighty."  And  seeing 
that  she  had  had  such  slight  opportunity  of  practically  testing  its 
value,  the  way  in  which  she  appraised  wealth  and  its  advantages 
proved,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  an  extraordinary  sagacity  and  aculeness 
of  apprehension  on  madame's  part. 

"  Millions  of  dollars  "  I  The  papers  in  the  leathern  case,  he  had 
declared,  were  worth  that  io  his  boy.  To  a  child  of  three  !  To  one 
who  would  have  to  wait  years  and  years  before  he  could  begin  lo 
enjoy  them.  To  an  infant  who  might  not  even  live  lo  enjoy  them  al 
all  And  in  that  event,  in  the  event  of  Claude's  death,  to  whom 
would  they  belong,  those  millions  of  dollars  ?  Probably  to  some  one 
who  did  not  require  them.  Possibly  to  some  one  who  had  no  right 
to  them— no  more  right  than  she,  Marie  Vandeleur,  had  herself. 
Why,  then,  should  she  not  take  charge  of  them  in  the  mean  time? 
Until  the  child  had  gro«'n  up,  or  until — .  ,  .  .  Yes,  for  a  long  time 
she  had  been  the  child's  guardian— his  mother,  as  it  were.  Perhaps 
he  would  still  be  left  in  her  care.  At  any  rate,  there  would  be  no 
harm  in  constituting  herself  ihe  custodian  of  his  property.  In  fact, 
only  a  simpleton  would  be  willing  to  part  with  so  much  treasure  out 
of  hand,  without  waiting  to  see  whether  some  advantage  was  not  to 
be  gained  from  it,  whether  some  share,  smaller  or  greater,  might  not 
with  safety  be  appropriated. 

But  would  there  be  safety  in  the  scheme  ?  Did  any  one  else 
know  of  the  existence  of  those  papers  ?  Was  any  one  else  acquainted 
with  their  value?  What  were  the  chances  for  and  against  detection 
in  case  she  should  retain  them  ? 

As  these  and  similar  questions  pressed  themselves  upon  her  excited 
brain,  madame's  head  grew  hot  and  her  temples  throbbed.  She  put 
up  her  arm  and  loosened  the  heavy  coils  of  her  hair,  which  spread, 
when  she  had  shaken  llicm  out,  like  a  black  mantle  over  her  shoulders 
and  down  below  her  waist.  Then,  resting  her  elbows  on  the  table, 
she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  (they  were  rather  large  hands  for 
her  size),  and  set  herself,  with  resolute  intensity,  to  face  the  situation. 
Remo\ing  her  hands  after  an  interval,  long  or  short  she  knew  not 
which,  Madame  Vandeleur  found  that  the  oil  lamp  had  gone  out, 
and  that  the  room  was  lighted  only  by  the  moon.     The  rays,  how- 


The  Unforeseen.  21 

li«ver,  from  that  luminary'  now  Tell,  as  they  had  not  done  before, 
nliaight  into  the  apartmenl,  rendering  every  object  in  it  visible,  but 
I  clothing  them  with  that  unfamiliar  aspect  which  we  have  all  noticed  as 
Idle  effect  of  the  pale,  serai-weird  radiancy. 

For  a  second  or  two,  madame  gazed  around  with  a  faint  exprcs- 
1  of  surprise,  but  that  expression  quickly  vanished,  and  there 
riemaincd  a  change  in  her  face  which  was  not  allributable  to  the 
changed  light— a  set,  detertnioed  look,  which  proved  that,  whether 
or  not  she  had  solved  all  her  difficulties,  Marie  had,  at  all  events, 
made  up  her  mind  how  to  act.  That  this  was  the  case,  was  speedily 
put  beyond  a  doubt  Slipping  off  a  pair  of  moccasin  shoes,  Madame 
Vandeleur  rose,  and  approaching  the  room  where  her  husband  slept, 
liBlencd  for  a  brief  space  at  the  door,  and  softly  drew  it  after  her. 
Stepping  then,  across  the  long,  low-ceiled  living-room,  she  unclosed 
the  door  of  her  lodger's  chamber,  which  opened  from  the  opposite 
end,  and  passed  in.  Owing  to  the  position  of  the  window,  this  chamber 
was  in  comparative  darkness.  Turning,  after  she  had  entered,  Marie 
set  the  door  of  the  living-room  more  widely  open,  and  as  she  did  so, 
a  ny  of  moonlight  fell  full  on  the  white  face  of  the  dead  man. 

]klarie  started,  and  a  cold  thrill  passed  over  her  as  those  still,  up- 

mmed  features  appeared  for  a  moment  to  q\iiver  into  life.     A  few 

seconds,  however,  sufficed  to  reassure  her.     Madame  Vandeleur  was 

not  the  sort  of  person  to  be  afraid  of  a  dead  man.     Taking  her 

courage  in  hand,  she  advanced  with  imhesitating  tread  into  the  room, 

and  was  presently  stooping  over  the  large  wooden  chest  which  poor 

I  Stephens  had  pointed  to  with  tremulous  finger,  only  so  short  a  time 

■  iKfore.    Its  contents  were  of  a  very  miscellaneous  character.  There 

i  were  garments  belonging  both  to  the  dead  man  and  to  his  boy ;  there 

'  irere  a  number  of  skins,  of  moose,  red  squirrel,  and  other  animals, 

which  had  been  the  young  Englishman's  propertj-,  and  which  he  had 

meant  to  have  sold.     There  were  toys,  too,  of  various  sorts,  some  of 

them  of  very  ingenious  construction,  which  the  devoted  father  had 

BpCDt  his  leisure  moments  in  carving.    There  was  an  old  doll,  amongst 

the  rest,  which  the  little  Claude  had  carried  in  his  arms  when  first  he 

bad  come  to  the  settlement,  and  which,  although  the  child  had  long 

:  grown  tired  of  it,  Stephens  would  never  permit  to  be  thrown 

By  no  means  without  sen.sibility,  Madame  Vandeleur  gave  vent 
Q  a  suppressed  sob  as  she  came  across  these  touching  mementoes 
r  the   deceased's  affeciion  for  his  boy,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 


Not  for  a  moment,  hoireicr,  did  she  dream  ot  TfcV\'Ci':\vi\&V\T\^\«s 


I 


22  Tlte  Gentkmans  Magazine. 

purpose.  BrushiDg  away  the  tears,  she  wenl  on  with  her  task,  and 
having  found,  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  box,  the  leathern  case  of 
which  she  was  in  search,  she  set  it  on  the  ground  and  carefully 
re-arranged  everything  in  the  chest  before  locking  it. 

Then,  with  her  head  turned  awaj-,  so  that  she  might  not  again 
catch  sight  of  that  rigid  white  face,  she  left  the  room,  case  in  hand. 
Breathing  more  freely,  now  that  she  had  quitted  that  nnconscious 
presence,  which,  despite  all  her  courage,  had  exercised  upon  her 
nerves  a  decidedly  trying  effect,  Marie  carried  the  case  to  the  window 
and  opened  it  with  the  key  which  she  had  put  into  her  own  pocket, 
after  taking  it  from  the  dead  Englishman's  bosom. 

As  he  had  said,  the  case  contained  only  papers.  Marie  turned 
them  over  with  her  hand,  and  her  first  sensation  was  one  of  blank 
disappointment.  The  papers  were  so  few  ;  and  amongst  them  there 
was  no  roll  of  bank  notes  !  Until  she  discovered  their  absence,  she 
hardly  knew  how  the  half-expectation  of  finding  some  of  those 
dollars  in  a  tangible  form  had  laid  hold  of  her  imagination.  But 
Madame  Vandeleur  was  an  eminently  reasonable  little  woman,  and 
she  liad  soon  argued  herself  out  of  a  disappointment  which  had 
arisen  from  what  she  now  recognised  as  a  highly  absurd  supposition. 
Still,  it  was  with  a  slight  sense  of  b.ilked  hope,  and  a  perceptible 
cooling  down  of  her  inward  excitement,  that  she  set  herself  to 
examine  these  documents  which  the  dead  man  had  declared  to  be  so 
precious. 

The  first  that  came  to  hand  proved  to  be  a  marriage  certificate. 
Although  in  English,  Marie  knew  the  form  of  it — "  Ah  !  e'est  fa — 
just  as  I  thought !"  she  exclaimed,  under  her  breath. 

"  Mademoiselle  Estcourt — mademoisdh,  indeed  !  " 

"But  what  means  this?"  Madame  had  been  on  the  point  of 
refolding  the  paper,  when  her  eye,  glancing  over  a  second  name 
engrossed  thereupon,  was  suddenly  arrested.  The  name  was  thai  of 
her  late  lodger  in  part — but  only  in  part.  "  Hubert  Henry  Ste  .  .  " 
so  far  it  was  correct,  but  the  name  when  finished  did  not  spell 
"  Stephens."  Was  the  moonlight  deceiving  her  ?  She  smoothed  out 
the  paper,  and  gazed  at  it  long  and  steadily ;  but  the  result  was  the 
same.  Finally  she  carried  the  ease  and  this  paper  to  the  table,  laid 
them  down,  and  sought  a  candle.  Madame  Vandeleur  liked  to 
master  facts  as  she  met  them.  This  fad,  however,  was  not  to  be 
cleared  up  or  altered  through  the  agency  of  a  tallow  candle,  or  by 
any  amount  of  deliberate  scrutiny.  "  Ste "  .  .  it  began  ;  but  there 
was  no  /  in  the  name,  whilst  there  was  an  o,  and  a  ti.  No,  decidedly 
the  name  did  not  spell  "  Stephens  "  ! 


The  Unforeseen.  23 

Forgetting  everything  else  in  her  tempoiary  surprise,  madame  sat 
for  some  minutes  with  a  puzzled  frown  upon  her  brow.  Then, 
pUciag  her  finger  on  that  part  of  the  document  which  contained  it, 
she  delivered  a  satlo-voce  verdict.  "  Thai  was  his  name — the  true 
name  '."  And  accompanying  this  conclusion  with  an  emphatic  nod 
of  the  head,  she  folded  ilie  certi^cate,  and  took  something  eUc  from 
the  case. 

This  time  it  was  not  a  written  or  printed  record ;  it  was  a  like- 
ness— a  photographic  likeness — of  a  very  beautiful  girl. 

"  Mademoiselle  Estcourl,  utns  douk\'  said  Marie,  laying  again  a 
sarcastic  stress  upon  the  first  word.  "  But,  my  failh,  how  lovely  she 
i>  \  What  exquisite  features  !  The  little  Claude,  however,  he 
ivscmbles  her  not  at  all."  She  studied  the  likeness  a  little  longer, 
then  threw  it  down  impatiently,  adding,  "  But,  holy  \''irgin,  what  a 
mystery  is  the  whole  Uiing — and  how  I  hate  mysteries ! " 

Once  more  madame's  hand  dived  into  the  leathern  box,  and 
^■^  came  forth  with  what  turned  out  to  be  the  copy  of  a  birth  rvgi^try — 
^^Vthat  of  the  child  Claude,  who  bore,  also,  his  father's  Christian  name, 
^^Lfluherl,  and  who,  it  appeared,  had  been  christened  by  the  same 
^^Moniame  as  tliat  on  the  marriage  certificate— the  name  that  began 
^^mrilh  Ste  .  .  ,  but  did  nut  end  as  Stephens. 

^^P  Here,  of  course,  was  corroboration,  had  she  required  it,  of  the 
^^  judgment  whereat  she  had  already  arrived.  Madame  did  not  feel 
that  she  had  required  it,  nevertheless  it  was  always  a  satisfaction  to 
fiod  her  intelligent  deductions  ratified.  She  executed  a  little  series  of 
nods  as  she  laid  aside  this  paper,  but,  at  the  same  time,  her  counte- 
nance fell.  So  far,  although  she  had  made  discoveries — discoveries 
which  might  perchance  prove  very  important  ones — she  had  come 
across  nothing  relative  to  property.  And  there  remained  in  the  case 
now  only  one  other  pajier,  Marie  had  left  it  to  the  last  because  it 
was  the  largest  and  most  bulky.  With  eager  fingers  she  drew  it 
forth.  But  alas  1  she  could  make  nothing  of  it.  Of  the  other  docu- 
tnents  she  had  been  able  to  comprehend  the  purport,  but  of  this  no 
part  proved  intelligible.  It  was  a  MS.,  closely  written,  .ind  neatly 
stitched  together.  The  penmanship  was  that  of  poor  Stephens  (so 
much  she  did  know),  but  the  language  in  which  the  manuscript  was 
written  was  English,  and  she  could  not  read  two  words  of  it  in 
sequence.  What  were  they  all  about,  these  close  pages — these  tire- 
some, undecipherable  signs  ?  Did  they  contain  some  occult  secret 
respecting  the  acquisition  of  wealth— some  directions  for  the 
discovery  of  hidden  treasure  ?  Marie  smiled  at  the  fatuous  notion. 
^H  Still,  she  felt  convinced  that  it   was  upon  this  wtiXm^  X'tva.x  \!nfi. 


i 


I 


possession  of  those  "millions  of  dollars"— or  of  that  which  poor 
Stephens  had  spoken  of  as  "worth  "them — depended. 

What  would  she  not  have  given  to  be  able  to  read  the  writing  ! 
It  was  no  use  wishing,  however — wishing  would  not  help  the  matter. 
But  Marie  could  help  herself.  She  could  harti  lo  read  that  writing. 
She  would  learn  lO  read  it.  And,  in  the  mean  time,  until  she  had 
mastered  its  secrets,  no  other  eye  than  her  own  should  ever,  if  she 
could  help  it,  catch  sight  of  that  manuscript. 

Thus  resolving,  Madame  Vandeleur  replaced  the  papers  in  the 
case,  took  up  it  and  her  candle,  and  with  her  long  black  hair 
streaming  down  her  back,  passed  out  of  the  room  by  a  third  door 
which  led  down  a  narrow  passage  and  out  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
It  was  some  considerable  time  before  she  returned  ;  but  when  she  did 
so,  it  was  empty-handed. 

And  now  a  quite  exceptional  experience  overtook  Madame 
Vandeleur,  She  began  to  feel,  not  exactly  frightened,  but  decidedly 
nervous  and  uncomfortable.  Now  that  her  deed  was  done,  she 
realised  that  it  was  an  ugly  deed.  She  had  (yes,  she  would  be 
candid  enough  to  confess  the  plain  truth  to  herself),  she  had 
robbed  the  dead  I  And  she  meant  to  injure  the  living.  At  least, 
she  was  afraid  she  meant  that,  if  it  could  be  done  with  impunity.  To 
put  her  action  in  the  very  mildest  form,  she  had  broken  a  sacred  trust 
Marie  could  sit  still  no  longer  in  this  lonely  room,  with  that  door, 
behind  which  lay  the  dead  man,  staring  her  in  the  face.  She  felt  cold 
and  a  little  sick.  She  pined,  somehow,  for  warm  hfc  and  human 
companionship.  She  would  not  waken  Paul,  but  she  would  creep 
into  bed  beside  him. 

This  done,  Marie  slipped  her  hand  under  her  husband's  arm,  and 
nestled  close  to  his  side.  What  a  good  fellow  he  was  !  She  had 
never  felt  before  how  good  he  was — perhaps  because  she  had  never 
been  conscious  till  now  of  .so  great  a  contrast  between  them  in  that 
respect.  In  her  heart  of  hearts,  Marie  had  always  known  that  she 
was  unscrupulous  ;  but,  hitherto,  her  virtue  had  been  assailed  by  no 
very  powerful  temptation,  and,  consequently,  there  had  been  nothing 
in  her  past  life  to  check  the  comfortable  sense  of  superiority  which 
she  had  constantly  enjoyed.  How  was  it  now  ?  Actually,  Marie  felt 
herself  regarding  this  big  husband  of  hers — who  was  all  heart  and 
body,  with  so  very  small  a  leaven  of  mind — wilh  a  sort  of  reverence  ! 
Alsushe  felt  a  phenomenal  need  of  his  protection.  What  had  she 
to  be  protected  against  ?  The  consequences  of  her  deed  ?  Perhaps 
so.  She  could  not  tell  what  those  consequences  might  be.  The 
thing  bad  been  begun — but  who  could  foresee  the  end? 


The  Unforeseen. 


25 


It  was  characteristic  of  Madame  Vandeleur,  that  whilst  she  could, 
of  course,  with  the  most  perfect  ease,  have  undone  what  she  had 
done,  and  so  relieved  herself  of  this  unwonted  mental  disturbance, 
the  course  was  one  which  she  never  for  an  instant  contemplated.  In 
her  own  view,  the  opinions  and  actions  of  this  strange  little  woman 
appeared  to  partake  of  the  nature  of  the  laws  of  the  ancient  Medes 
and  Persians.  Once  formed  or  entered  upon,  she  regarded  them  as 
irreversible. 


(To  be  continued.) 


Thi  Geritlemans  Magazine. 


,    MORE  VIEWS  OF  JANE  AUSTEN. 

AN  author  who  shall  kindle  into  enthusiasm  critics  so  diverse  in 
character  as  Sir  ^Valte^  Scott,  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  Arch- 
bishop Whately,  and  Ix)rd  Macaulay,  must — in  a  literary  sense — be 
in  possession  of  the  philosopher's  stone.  Such  an  author  was  the 
gifted  woman  whose  name  appears  at  the  head  of  tliis  article.  Like 
Shakespeare,  she  took,  as  it  were,  the  common  dross  of  humanity, 
and  by  her  wonderful  power  of  literary  alchemy,  turned  it  into  piire 
gold.  Yet  she  was  apparently  unconscious  of  her  strength,  and  in  the 
long  roll  of  writers  who  have  adorned  our  noble  literature  there  is 
probably  not  one  so  devoid  of  pedantry  or  affectation,  so  delightfully 
self-repressive,  or  so  free  from  egotism,  as  Jane  Austen.  Her  life 
passed  calmly  and  smoothly,  resembling  some  translucent  stream 
which  meanders  through  our  English  meadows,  and  is  never  lashed 
into  anger  by  treaclierous  rocks  or  violent  currents.  The  lover  of 
books,  who  turns  from  the  rush  and  strife  of  existence  in  quest  of 
intellectual  solace  and  recreation,  will  discover  in  this  writer  a  peren- 
nial spring  of  enjoyment  and  satisfaction. 

Miss  Austen  was  the  daughter  of  the  Rev,  George  Austen,  Rector 
of  Steventon,  in  Hampshire  ;  but  the  family  was  of  Kentish  origin, 
and  had  been  established  for  upwards  of  a  century  and  a  half  before 
the  future  novelist's  birth  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Se\'enoaks.  Like 
many  of  the  ancient  families  in  the  Weald  of  Kent — some  of  whose 
descendants  have  become  large  landed  proprietors,  while  others  liave 
been  ennobled — the  Austens  were  clothiers.  To  these  clothiers  was 
given  the  generic  designation  oftheGrayCoatsof  Kent,  Miss  Austen's 
father  having  become  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  nine,  he  was  adopted 
by  a  wealthy  uncle,  and  received  a  hberal  education,  proceeding 
from  Tunbridge  School  to  Oxford,  He  obtained  a  fellowship  at 
St.  John's  College,  In  1764  we  find  him  settled  in  Hampshire,  in 
possession  of  the  joint  rectories  of  Deane  and  Steventon,  and  united 
in  marriage  to  Cassandra,  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Leigh,  of  the  well-known  Warwickshire  family  of  that  name.  Miss 
Austen's  faculty  of  humour  probably  came  from  her  immediate  ances- 
tors on  the  maternal  side.  One  of  the  Leighs,  who  held  the  Mastership 


of  Balliol  for  upwards  ofhalTa  century,  was  especially  distinguished 
for  his  wiL  ^  Two  of  his  jeux  de  mols,  which  were  worthy  of  Sydney 
Smith  va.  his  best  days,  we  must  reproduce.  A  dispute  having  arisen 
among  the  Priiy  Councillors,  it  was  tepoited  that  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor struck  the  table  with  such  \'iolence  that  he  split  it.  "  No,  no," 
interposed  Dr.  Leigh,  "  I  can  hardly  persuade  myself  that  he  ipiit 
tkt  /it d/ir,  though  I  certainly  believe  he  dh'ided  the  Boafd  P'  The 
other  incident  occurred  only  a  few  days  before  the  Master's  death. 
Having  been  informed  th.it  an  old  acquaintance  had  recently  married 
and  just  recovered  from  a  long  illness,  the  result  of  eating  eggs,  and 
being  further  lold  that  the  wits  said  he  had  been  egged  on  to  matri- 
mony, the  Dotior  capped  the  joke  by  the  double  pun,  "  Then  may 
the  yoke  sit  easy  on  him ! "  From  which  we  perceive  that  there  is  no 
necessary  divorce  between  humour  and  divinity. 

A  very  entertaining  Memoir  of  Jane  Austen  was  given  to  the 
world  some  years  ago  by  her  nephew,  the  Rev.  J.  E.  Austen  Leigh. 
It  is  stated  in  this  biography  that  to  Mr.  George  Austen  and  his  wife 
was  committed  the  charge  of  the  infant  son  of  the  celebrated  Warren 
Ha,stings.  The  child,  however,  did  not  live  long,  but  at  his  death 
Mrs.  Austen  mourned  forhim  as  though  he  had  been  her  own  son.  Mr. 
Austen  Leigh  furnishes  us  with  a  glimpse  of  rural  life  in  the  South 
of  England  a  century  ago.  It  seems  scarcely  possible  that  so  short  a 
space  of  time  should  have  made  such  a  difference,  both  as  regards  the 
enlightenment  of  the  inner  and  the  softening  of  the  rugged  and  outer 
asiiects  of  life  in  the  rural  districts.  We  read  that,  so  lately  as  towards 
the  close  of  the  last  century,  "  a  neighbouring  squire,  a  man  of  many 
acres,"  referred  the  following  difficulty  to  Mr.  Austen's  decision. 
"  Vou  know  all  about  these  sort  of  things.  Do  tell  us.  Is  Paris  in 
France,  or  France  in  Paris  ?  for  my  wife  has  been  disputing  with  me 
about  it."  If  suchwas  the  conditionof  the  tolerably  well-to-do,  we  may 
form  some  idea  of  the  ignorance  and  degradation  of  the  labouring 
classes.  Many  of  these  were  totally  unacquainted  with  (he  names  of 
the  most  conspicuous  fig\ires  in  history ;  they  knew  nothing  of  God  or 
the  Bible  ;  a  few  had  heard  of  "  Billy  Pitt"  j  a  rather  larger  number 
of'"BoQey";butal!knewof  the  existence  of  the  Devi!,  though  serious 
doubts  have  recently  been  thrown  upon  his  personality.  Altogether, 
the  life  of  a  country  parson  in  the  very  secluded  districts,  where  the 
best  man  of  his  acquaintance  was  only  the  average  squire,  could  rot 
have  been  of  the  most  desirable  and  elevating  character.  Both  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Austen,  however,  were  possessed  of  no  ordinary  mental  parts, 
though  it  was  from  the  latter  (who  lived  to  the  great  age  of  eighty- 
eight,  dying  only  in  1827)  that  Jane  Austen  derived  the  genius  which 


I 


28  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

was  destined  to  gain  her  high  literary  distinction.  Yet  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  family  were  also  far  above  the  average  in  ability.  The 
eldest  son,  James,  had  more  than  a  passable  career  at  Oxford,  where 
he  manifested  considerable  literary  talent ;  while  the  two  youngest, 
Francis  and  Charles,  after  a  successful  career  in  the  navy,  rose  to 
the  rank  of  admiral  The  former  lived  until  the  year  1B65,  dying 
in  his  ninety-third  year,  G.C.B,  and  Senior  Admiral  of  the  Fleet. 
Charles  Austen  commanded  the  "  Eellerophon  "  at  the  bombard- 
ment of  SL  Jean  d'Acce  in  1840.  He  was  an  especial  favourite 
with  all  with  whom  he  came  into  contact,  and  his  death  was  a  great 
grief  to  the  whole  fleet.  Strong  men  wept  when  they  heard  of 
it  In  disposition  he  is  said  to  have  greatly  resembled  his  sister 
Jane,  Her  knowledge  of  seafaring  matters  and  men  is  thus  readily 
traced  to  its  source,  and  some  of  the  happiest  passages  in  her  novels 
are  those  in  which  she  delineates  and  individualises  naval  character. 
Happily  Jane  Austen  was  not  Icftto  the  ordinaryrural  society  we  have 
already  depicted-  There  was  the  refinement  of  her  own  home,  and  to  her 
mother  and  elder  sister  Cassandra— women  of  intellectual  power  and 
high  and  pure  lone — Miss  Austen  was  deeply  attached.  But,  besides 
these  home  sources  of  culture  and  improvement  as  well  as  enjoy- 
ment, she  found  in  the  neighbourhood,  as  her  biographer  observes, 
"  persons  of  good  taste  and  cultivated  minds.  Her  acquaintance,  in 
fact,  constituted  the  very  class  from  which  she  took  her  imaginary 
characters,  ranging  from  the  member  of  Parliament  or  large  landed 
proprietor  to  the  young  curate  or  younger  midshipman  of  equally 
good  family ;  and  I  think  that  the  influence  of  these  early  associa- 
tions may  be  traced  in  her  writings,  especially  in  two  particulars. 
First,  that  she  is  entirely  free  from  the  vulgarity  which  is  so  offensive 
in  some  novels,  of  dwelling  on  the  outward  appendages  of  wealth  or 
rank  as  if  they  were  things  to  which  the  writer  was  unaccustomed  ; 
and,  secondly,  that  she  deals  as  little  with  very  low  as  with  very 
high  stations  in  life."  There  is  great  justice  in  these  observations. 
Miss  Austen  did  not  strive  for  success  through  the  questionable  and 
meretricious  means  adopted  by  many  writers ;  she  had  no  unhealthy 
sensationalism  on  the  one  hand  or  essential  vulgarity  on  the  other. 
The  greatest  tribute  to  the  innate  strength  of  her  literary  powers  is 
that,  taking  character  as  she  found  it,  and  without  forcing  or  straining 
her  means  in  the  slightest  degree,  she  achieved  so  much  and  pre- 
served through  all  a  consummate  ease  and  naturalness. 

It  does,    in    truth,   seem    almost  marvellous  that  one   who   for 

twenty-five  years  led  so  retired  an  existence  should  have  developed 

in  her  books  such  a  deep  knowledge  of  human  life.     But  the  ways  of 

genius  are  mysterious  And  profound.     ltassitni\a\,esV'no>)i\tft^ftvov4« 


i 


I 

I 


More   Views  of  yane  Aiisien.  29 

apparently  insuperable  difficulties,  and  while  ihe  ordinary  mind  is 
dead  and  inert  it  is  silently  working  with  sleepless  energy.  Who 
can  account  for  the  univereality  of  that  greatest  of  all  minds — the 
mind  of  Shakespeare — or  trace  the  accumulation  of  its  wealth  ?  As  in 
the  blind  the  senses  of  hearing  and  of  touch  are  apparently  developed 
to  a  preternatural  degree,  so  there  seems  to  be  given  to  men  of 
genius  a  second  range  of  powers  whose  action  is  beyond  our  com- 
prehension, as  their  results  are  beyond  our  achievement.  The  quiet 
hedgerows,  the  rustic  shrubberies  and  gardens,  the  iiitle  rural  church, 
and  the  lanes  and  meadows  of  Steventon — such  were  the  early 
teachers  of  Jane  Austen.  But  she  possessed  that  without  which 
neither  poet,  artist,  nor  novelist  has  yet  been  able  to  communicate 
to  others  knowledge  which  was  worth  the  having^viz.,  a  keenly 
observant  eye,  which  embraced  everything  within  its  vision.  To 
minds  so  endowed  there  is  neither  small  nor  great,  the  mighty  does 
not  overshadow  the  minute,  nor  is  there  anything  so  small  or  mean 
in  nature  as  to  be  viewed  with  contempt  or  dismissed  with  con- 
tamely.  Genius  is  ever  learning,  and  not  infrequently  the  humblest 
sources  furnish  its  loftiest  inspirations. 

At  a  very  early  age  the  cacoclhts  scribendi  came  upon  Jane 
Austen  ;  but,  unlike  so  many  subsequent  writers,  she  modestly  con- 
cealed her  etforls.  Her  compositions  were  only  intended  to  amuse 
the  family  circle,  and  within  this  range  they  were  strictly  confined. 
Mr.  Austen  Leigh  reprints  a  scene  from  an  unfinished  comedy, 
"The  Mystery,"  which  his  relative  wrote  for  the  transitory  amuse- 
ment of  the  family  parly.  It  exhibits  Uveliness  and  vivacity,  but 
nothing  lo  show  that  its  writer  was  possessed  of  original  power.  Yet 
this  habit  of  early  composition  was  not  a  useless  one,  and  it  was 
shortly  to  bear  its  legitimate  fruit.  As  we  give  no  thought  to  the 
ccalfolding  when  some  noble  building  is  being  reared,  so  we  dismiss 
the  preliminary  processei  by  which  an  author  first  exercises  and 
develops  his  faculties.  Still,  some  of  Miss  Austen's  most  successful 
writing  "  was  composed  at  such  an  early  age  as  to  make  it  surprising 
that  so  young  a  woman  could  have  acquired  the  insight  into  character, 
and  the  nice  observation  of  manners,  which  her  novels  display."  It 
is  staled  that  "  Pride  and  Prejudice,"  considered  by  many  j.erions 
the  most  brilliant  of  her  novels,  was  begun  in  1 7<)G,  before  she  was 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  completed  in  about  ten  months. 
Genius  generally  accomphshes  its  work  early  and  rapidly,  while 
talent  develops  its  results  slowly  and  laboriously.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
wrote  one  of  his  finest  novels  in  three  months.  It  is  one  of  the 
characteristics   of  genius  to   manifest  itself  unde^  vUe  toQ'A  4\v 


The  Gentletnan's  Magazine. 

advantageous  circumstances,  and  it  is  distinguished  by  an  eternal 
irrepressibility.  Certainly,  it  is  not  a  little  remarkable  that  Jane 
Austen  should  have  proiioced  one  of  her  most  finished  works  in  her  ' 
twenty-first  year.  But  the  groundwork  of  "Sense  and  Sensibility" 
was  composed  even  earlier  than  this,  while  "  Northanger  Abbey  " 
was  first  written  in  1798.  In  less  than  the  brief  space  of  three  years, 
therefore,  and  whiie  the  author  was  between  her  twentieth  and  her 
twenty-third  year,  this  trinity  of  novels,  all  exhibiting  first-class 
power,  was  conceived  and  executed. 

The  weil-known  antiquary.  Sir  Egerton  Brydgcs,  has  left  a  sketch 
of  Jane  Austen,  whom  he  knew  as  a  little  child.  "  I  never  suspected," 
he  says,  "  tiiat  she  was  an  authoress ;  but  my  eyes  told  me  that  she 
was  fair  and  handsome,  slight  and  elegant,  but  with  cheeks  a  little 
too  full."  In  character,  she  appears  to  have  been  all  that  might  be 
predicated  from  a  close  acquaintance  with  her  works.  On  this 
point  her  biographer  observes  :  "  Many  may  care  to  know  whether 
the  moral  rectitude,  the  correct  taste,  and  the  warm  affections  with 
which  she  invested  her  ideal  characters  were  really  existing  in  the 
native  source  whence  those  ideas  flowed,  and  were  actually  exhibited 
by  her  in  the  various  relations  of  life,  lean  indeed  bear  witness  tliat 
there  was  scarcely  a  charm  in  her  most  delightftd  characters  that  was 
not  a  true  reflection  of  her  own  sweet  temper  and  loving  heart.  I 
was  young  when  we  lost  her  ;  but  the  impressions  made  on  the 
young  are  deeji,  and  though  in  the  course  of  fifty  years  I  have 
forgotten  much,  I  have  not  fiDrgolten  that  Aunt  Jane  was  the  delight 
of  all  her  nephews  and  nieces.  We  did  not  think  of  her  as  being 
clever,  still  less  as  being  famous  ;  but  we  valued  her  as  one  always 
kind,  sympathising,  and  amusing,"  Readers  who  delight  in  tracing 
the  course  of  lovc^and  how  many  human  hearts  arc  there  utterly 
insensible  to  the  sentiment!— will  find  considerable  space  devoted 
to  it  in  Miss  Austen's  woiks.  It  is  but  natural,  perhaps,  that  this 
fact  should  have  led  to  the  query  in  what  degree  these  numerous 
passages  concerning  tender  attachments  were  due  to  the  imagination, 
or  whether  they  were  not  the  actual  reflection  of  experience.  Indeed, 
a  writer  in  the  QuarUrly  Rn'Uw  half  a  century  ago,  referring  to  the 
passion  of  Fanny  Price  for  Edmund  Bertram,  and  the  silence  with 
which  it  was  cherished,  remarked  how  lliat  "the  slender  hopes  and  1 
enjoyments  by  which  it  is  fed,  the  restlessness  and  jealousy  with  which 
it  fills  a  mind  naturally  active,  contented,  and  unsuspicious,  the 
manner  in  which  it  tinges  every  event  and  every  reflection,  are 
painted  with  a  vividness  and  a  detail  of  which  we  can  scarcely  con- 
ceive any  one  but  a  female,  and,  we  should  almost  add,  a  female 


More  Views  of  Jane  Austen. 


I 


Lting  from  recollection,  capable."  For  this  conjectiire,  Mr.  Aiisien 
;h  does  not  believe  that  any  substantial  basis  txists  ;  but  lie  adds 
autobiograpbic  incident  in  connection  with  Jane  Austen,  which 
inly  shows  that  the  assumption  of  the  reviewor  was  by  no  means 
mpossiblc  or  an  unreasonable  one.  Touching  this  passage  of 
romance  in  the  novelist's  history,  "  Many  years  after  her  death,  some 
circDin stances  induced  her  sister  Cassandra  to  break  through  her 
liabitual  reticence  and  to  speak  of  it.  She  said  thai,  while  slaying 
at  some  seaside  place,  they  became  acquainted  with  a  gentleman, 
whose  charm  of  person,  mind,  and  manners  was  siich  that  Cassandra 
thought  him  worthy  to  possess  and  likely  to  win  her  sister's  love. 
Wlien  they  parted,  he  expressed  his  intention  of  soon  seeing  them 
again  ;  and  Cassandra  felt  no  doubt  as  to  his  motives.  But  they 
ne^'er  again  meL  Within  a  short  time  they  heard  of  his  sudden 
death.  I  believe  that,  if  Jane  ever  loved,  it  was  this  unnamed 
gentleni.in  ;  but  the  acquaintance  had  been  short,  and  I  am  unable 
to  say  whether  her  feelings  were  of  such  a  nalvirc  as  to  aiTect  her 
happiness."  Length  of  acquaintance  is  no  test  of  passion,  and  it  is 
possible  that  during  this  brief  friendship  Jane  Austen,  who  had 
declined  at  an  earlier  period  a  most  eligible  parti — eligible,  that  is, 
as  regards  individual  character  and  social  position— had  fallen  a 
victim  to  the  darts  of  Cupid,  \Vnrdsworth  says  that  "  poctrj'  is 
emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity ; "  and  we  are  aware  that  many 
authors  have  translated  into  the  most  vivid  language — prose  equally 
»tth  verse — the  overmastering  emotions  and  sentiments  which  at 
some  previous  period  in  their  career  have  held  sway  over  them.  We 
do  not  alFirm  that  this  is  so  with  Miss  Austen,  but  there  arc  many 
passages  in  "Mansfield  Park"  which  forbid  the  supiiosition  from 
being  dismissed  as  wholly  improbable. 

In  the  year  iSor  the  Austens  removed  to  Balh,  where  "The 
Waisons,"  a  story  never  concluded  by  the  author,  was  written. 
Four  years  later,  the  Rev.  George  Austen  died,  and  was  buried  at 
Walcot  Church.  Shortly  after  this  event,  Mrs.  Austen  and  her 
idaughters  went  to  reside  in  Southampton.  The  residence  in  Bath 
I'hid  not  been  without  its  uses  to  the  novelist,  as  many  scenes  in  her 
works  abundantly  testify-  She  was,  however,  acciuainled  with  the 
fashionable  city  of  the  West  before  it  became  the  residence  of  her 
family.  Their  stay  at  Southampton  was  not  of  long  duration,  as  in 
1809,  through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Knight,  of  Stevenlon,  they  were 
able  to  take  up  their  abode  at  Chawton,  in  Hampshiie.  Chawlon  is 
described  as  the  second  as  well  as  the  last  home  of  Jane  Austen. 
The  village  stands  about  a  mile  from  Alton,  where  the  road  to 


I 


32  The  Gentletnan's  Magazine. 

Winchester  brandies  off  from  that  to  Gosport  At  this  place  Miss 
Austen  resumed  the  habits  of  literary  activity  which  had  suffered  a 
temporary  check  during  her  residence  in  Bath  and  Southampton. 
She  now  produced  in  rapid  succession,  and  between  the  years  iSii 
and  1816,  the  three  novels  "Mansfield  Park,"  "Emma,"  and 
"Persuasion."  She  delighted  in  working  unsuspected  by  others, 
and  wrote  upon  small  sheets  of  paper  which  could  readily  be  put 
away  or  covered  over  on  the  approach  of  intruders.  It  seems  that 
the  profits  of  the  four  novels  which  had  been  printed  up  to  the  lime 
of  her  death  did  not  amount  to  quite  seven  hundred  pounds — a  sum 
not  equal  to  that  which  several  living  novelists  now  receive  for  each 
of  their  fictions.  She  did  not  affect  the  indifference  which  many 
authors  profess  to  feel  over  the  reception  of  their  works.  Writing 
to  her  sister  with  respect  to  "  Pride  and  Prejudice,"  she  observed  : 
"  Upon  the  whole,  I  am  quite  vain  enough  and  well  satisfied  enough. 
The  work  is  rather  too  light,  and  bright,  and  sparkling  ;  it  wants 
shade  i  it  wants  to  be  stretched  out  here  and  there  with  a  long 
chapter  of  sense,  if  it  could  be  had  ;  if  not,  of  solemn,  specious 
nonsense,  about  something  unconnected  with  the  stor)-;  an  essay  on 
writing,  a  critique  on  Walter  Scott,  or  the  history  of  Bonaparte,  or 
something  that  would  form  a  contrast,  and  bring  the  reader  with 
increased  delight  to  the  playfulness  and  epigrammatism  of  the  style." 
Mr.  Austen  Leigh  shows  how  different  her  life  was  from  that  of  other 
authors  who  are  thrown  into  literary  society,  and  become  "the 
observed  of  all  obser\-ers."  Miss  Austen  "lived  in  entire  seclusion 
from  the  literary  world  ;  neither  by  correspondence  nor  by  personal 
intercourse  was  she  known  to  any  contemporary  authors.  It  is  pro- 
bable that  she  never  was  in  company  with  any  person  whose  talents 
or  whose  celebrity  equalled  her  own  ;  so  that  her  powers  never  could 
have  been  sharpeued  by  collision  with  superior  intellects,  nor  her 
imagination  aided  by  their  casual  suggestions."  Her  retired  lot  is 
contrasted  with  that  of  Madame  d'Arblay,  who  was  introduced  by 
Dr.  Johnson  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and  other  celebrities  of  the  time. 
Crabbe,  also,  was  received  at  Holland  Jlouse,  and  on  one  occasion 
was  Sir  Walter  Scott's  guest  at  Edinburgh  ;  and  even  Charlotte 
Brontii,  who  spent  her  life  on  the  Yorkshire  moors,  was  greatly 
sought  after  upon  her  visit  to  London.  The  fame  of  Jane  Austen 
was  very  largely  posthumous,  and  one  anecdote  is  told  illustrative  of 
this.  Not  long  ago,  a  gentleman  visiting  Winchester  Cathedral 
desired  to  be  shown  the  grave  of  the  author  of  "  Pride  and  Prejudice." 
The  verger,  in  pointing  it  out,  inquired,  "  Pray,  sir,  can  you  tell  me 
whether  there  was  anything  particular  about  that  lady;  so  many 


» 


More  Views  of  Jane  Austen. 

rptople  wani  to  know  where  she  was  buried  ? "  Nor  need  we  be 
nnprised  at  this,  for  is  there  not  a  rhyme  upon  a  greater  than  Jane 
Austen,  which  says — 

ScTCD  Enilern  cilies  claim  great  Ilnmet  dead, 
Through  which  Ihe  living  Homct  begged  his  bread. 

Miss  Austen's  novels  were  greatly  admired  by  the  Prince  Regent, 
who,  it  seems,  read  them  often,  and  kept  a  set  in  every  one  of  his 
residences.  Their  author  received  an  invitation  to  Carlton  House, 
and  her  next  novel  was  dedicated  to  the  royal  patron,  wliose  literary 
taste  in  this  instance  was  sound  and  true.  The  Prince's  librarian, 
Mr.  Clarke,  writing  to  Miss  Austen  at  tlie  time  of  the  approaching 
marriage  of  Prince  Leopold  to  the  Princess  Charlotte,  suggested  that 
"an  historical  romance  illustrative  of  the  august  House  of  Cobourg 
would  just  now  be  very  interesting,"  and  might  very  properly  be 
dedicated  to  Prince  Leopold.  To  this  obliging  recommendation. 
Miss  Austen  replied  in  terms  which  implied  that  she  could  not 
write  to  order.  "  I  could  no  more  write  a  romance  than  an  epic  poem, 
1  could  not  sit  seriously  down  to  write  a  serious  romance  under  any 
other  motive  than  to  save  my  hfe  ;  and  if  it  were  indispensable  to  me 
to  keep  it  up  and  never  relax  into  laughing  at  myself  or  other  people, 
I  am  sure  I  should  be  hung  before  I  had  finished  the  first  chapter." 
Mr.  Clarke's  was  a  well-meaning  though  ludicrous  attempt  to  transfer 
a  round  peg  into  one  of  the  square  holes  of  literature.  Miss  Austen 
composed  in  the  natural  and  only  rational  manner  described  by 
Charlotte  Bronte  in  a  letter  to  a  critic  who  had  suggested  tliat  she 
should  follow  the  elder  novehst's  style.  "When  authors  write  best," 
said  the  author  of  "  Jane  Eyre,"  "  or,  at  least,  when  they  write  most 
fluently,  an  influence  seems  to  waken  in  them  which  becomes  their 
master — which  will  have  its  way — putting  out  of  view  all  behests  but 
its  own,  dictating  certain  words,  and  insisting  on  their  being  used, 
whether  vehement  or  measured  in  their  nature,  new  moulding 
characters,  giving  unihought-of  turns  to  incidents,  rejecting  carefully 
elaborated  old  ideas,  and  suddenly  creating  and  adopting  new  ones. 
Is  it  not  so  ?  And  should  we  try  to  counteract  this  influence  ?  Can 
we,  indeed,  counteract  it }  "  The  answer  is  emphatically  No.  Genius 
is  like  the  free  wind  of  heaven  ;  it  bio  we  th  where  it  listeth,  and  no 
man  knows  its  processes,  its  going  and  its  coming.  How  could 
its  noblest  results  be  accomplished  if  it  were  not  thus  perfectly 
unfettered  ? 

It  has  been  matter  of  frequent  remark  that  works  which  are 
■ow  held  in  high  esteem  by  the  world  at   large  absolutely  went 

VOL.  ccLvin,     AO.  rS^g.  q 


J 


L  Tl. 


The  GentUniatii  Magazi7te. 


J 


i begging  amongst  ihe  publishers.  Thackeray,  for  example,  i 
Jiave  carried  his "  Vanity  Fair"  from  house  to  house,  being  unsuccessful 
on  no /ewer  than  sixteen  or  seventeen  occasions  ;  and  other  instances 
of  a  like  character  might  be  cited.  James-and  Horace  Smith's 
I  "Rejected  Addresses"  were  refused  by  a  publisher  who  afterwards 
purchased  the  work  at  thirty  limes  the  price  he  might  have  had  it  for 
I  in  the  outset.  Success  gilds  many  things.  Cadell,  the  well-known 
publisher,  declined  by  return  of  post  to  give  any  encouragement  to 
I  the  publication  of  Miss  Austen's  "  Pride  and  Prejudice,"  or  even  to 
entertain  the  proposition  lo  publish  the  work  at  the  author's  risk 
"Northanger  Abbey"  was  sold  in  1803  to  a  publisher  in  Bathfor.ro/' 
but  so  little  enamoured  was  he  of  the  story  that  he  chose  to  abide  bv 

hisfirst  loss  rather  than  risk  further  expense  by  publishing  such  a  work 
The  author  herself  considered  that  when  she  received  150/.  from 
the  sale  of  "Sense  and  Sensibility,"  it  was  a  prodigious  recompense 
for  that  which  had  cost  her  little  or  nothing.  Yet,  with  her  strong 
judgment  and  critical  faculty,  she  cannot  but  have  felt  astonishment 
sometimes  at  the  success  which  attended  work  inferior  to  her  own. 
Amongst  the  enthusiastic  admirers  of  these  novels  by  Miss  Austen 
which  were  little  regarded  by  the  public  generally — were  Southey,  who 

held  them  to  be  more  true  to  nature  than  any  writings  of  the  age 

Coleridge — who  described  them  as  perfectly  genuine  and  individual 
productions — and  Miss  Mitford,  who  said  that  she  could  almost  have 
cut  otr  one  of  her  hands  if  it  would  have  enabled  her  to  write  like 
Miss  Austen  with  the  other.  M.  Cui?.ot  declared  that  "  Miss 
Austen,  Miss  Ferrier,  &:c.,  form  a  school  which,  in  the  excellence 
and  profusion  of  its  productions,  resembles  the  cloud  of  dramatic 
poets  of  the  great  Athenian  age."  The  Eari  of  Carlisle,  the  noble 
writer  of  agreeable  verse,  referred  to  her  as  the  "  all-perfect  Austen." 
The  opinions  of  other  distinguished  literary  men  of  much  greater 
weight  and  power  have  been  alluded  to  in  the  outset  of  this  article. 
One  of  the  best  tributes  paid  to  these  admirable  novels,  however, 
is  the  picture  of  Lord  Holland  lying  ill  in  his  bed,  with  his  sister 
Miss  Fox  reading  aloud  to  him,  as  she  always  did  on  these  occa- 
sions, some  one  of  Miss  Austen's  stories,  of  which  he  was  never 
wearied.  "  I  well  recollect  the  time,"  says  Sir  Henry  Holland, 
who  furnishes  the  above  reminiscence,  "  when  these  cliarroing 
novels,  almost  unique  in  their  style  of  humour,  burst  suddenly 
on  the  worid.  It  was  sad  that  their  writer  did  not  live  to  witness 
the  growth  of  her  fame."  It  is  a  singular  fact  that  many  phi- 
losophers have  developed  a  strong  predilection  for  fiction;  and 
*he  celebrated  Whewell  (who  once  wearied  of  his  stay  at  Car- 
■pTon  because  he  had  read  the  circu\3,i\T\g  Vvbrai^  Wice  through) 


More    Viezus  of  Jane  AusUn.  35 

ii  also  to  be  numbered  amongst  the  warmest  admirers  of  Miss 
Austen. 

In  her  later  years  this  gifted  writer  suffered  from  some  internal 
rnalmif,  whose  progress  was  probably  hastened  by  certain  family 
noubles  which  arose  in  the  year  iSi6.     Her  spirits,  howewr,  weie 
nsually  cheerful  and  buoyant,  and  the  occasions  were  rare  in  which 
she  iodulged    in   complaints,   or   fdl   into    listlessness  and  mental 
ilepression.     As  the  body  decayed,  indeed,  the  mind  seemed   to 
lojuire  greater  strength.     By  the  beginning  of  -March  1S17   it  was 
teen  that  she  was  seriously  ill.     The    lyih  was  the  last  date  upon 
which  she  engaged  in  literary  labour.     In  May  she  removed  to  Win- 
chester   for  the  purpose    of  securing   skilful    medical    advine  and 
allenlion  ;  but  Mr,  I.yford,  a  practitioner  of  great  eminence,  seems 
10  have  had  little  hope  of  her  recovery  from  the    first.       It   was 
hard  to  be  cut  off  at  the  moment  when  success  was  crowning  her 
labours,  and  when  her  genius  had  become  a  source  of  the  purest 
jiy  and  satisfaction  to  her.     But  she  did  not  repine  at  ihe  i^rospect 
of  death,  any  more  than   she    feared    it.       Here    is   a    testimony 
lo  her  worth  and  character,   as  well  as  an  account   of  her  last 
moments : — "She  was  a  humble  believing  Christian.     Her  life  had 
been  passed  in  the  performance  of  home  duties  and  the  cultivation 
of  domestic  affections,   without  any   self-seeking   or  craving    after 
applause.     She  had  always  sought,  as  it  were  by  instinct,  to  pro- 
mote the  happiness    of    all   who  came  within    her   influence,  and 
doubtless  she  had  her  reward  in  the   peace    of  mind  which  was 
granted  her  in  her  last  days.     Her  sweetness  of  temper  never  failed. 
She  was  ever  considerate  and  grateful  to  those  who  attended  on 
her.     At  times  when  she  felt  rather  better,  her  playfulness  of  spirit 
revix-ed,  and  she  amused  them  even  in  their  sadness,     Once,  when 
ihe  thought  herself  near  her  end,  she  said  what  she  imagined  might 
be  her  last  words  to  those  around  her,   and  [wrlicularly  thanked 
her  sister-in-law  for  being   with  hei',   saying:    'You   have    always 
been  a  Vmd  sister  to  me,  Mary.'     Wlien    tlic   end   at    last    came, 
she  sank   rapidly,  and  on  being  asked  by  her  attendants  whether 
there  was  anything  that  she  wanted,  her  reply  was,    '  Nothing  but 
death'    These  were  her  last  words.     In  quietness  and  peace  she 
breathed  her  last  on  the  morning  of  July  18,   1817,"     Jane  .\usten 
was  thus  only  in  her  forty-second  year  at  the  time  of  her  death.    She 
was  laid  lo  rest  in  Winchester  Cathedral,  almost  opposite  to  the 
tomb  of  William  of  Wykeham.     By  all  whom  she  left  behind  she 
_»S  regarded  with    the  tenderest   affection,  mingled  with  feelings 
f  profound   esteem  for  those  talents  which  were  l^o^\   ■so  dewV-j 


1 


demonstrated,  and  so  conspicuous  to  the  world  at  large.  Her  life  veai 
but  a  brief  span,  and  had  it  been  prolonged,  a  riper  experience  mighi 
have  still  further  expanded  powers  which  were  justly  the  theme  of 
unfeigned  admiration  on  the  part  of  all  who  accurately  gauged  their 
extent  and  character. 

Nothing,  probably,  is  more  entertaining  than  details  affectmg  the 
life  and  persona!  characteristics  of  distinguished  authors  ;  and  for- 
tunately we  are  not  without  some  record  of  this  nature  In  regard  to 
Miss  Austen.     Her  nephew  says  she  was  not  highly  accomplished 
according  to  the  present  sUndard,  yet  she  read  French  with  facility 
and  knew  something  of  Italian.     She  delighted  in  music,  and  was 
sufficiently  proficient  in  it  to  sing,  to  her  own  accompaniment,  many 
simple  old  songs   now  never  heard.    She  had  read  much  history, 
and.  even   in  her  youth  held  strong  pohticai  opinions,  especially 
about  the  affairs  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.     She 
vehemently  defended  Charles  I,,  but  rather,  as  Mr.   Leigh  thinks, 
from  an  impulse  of  feeling  than  from  any  inquiry  into  the  evidences 
by  which  he  and  other  characters  with  whom  she  sympathised  must 
be  condemned  or  acquitted.    With  regard  to  the  politics  of  her  own 
day,  she  look  but  little  active  interest  in  them,  though  "she  pro- 
bably shared  the  feeling  of  moderate  Toryism  which  prevailed   in 
her  family."     The  Spectator  and  all  the  old  periodicals  were  very 
familiar  to  her,  and  she  was  au  coiirant  with  Richardson's  novels 
down  to  the  minutest  detail.     Cowper,  Crabbe,  and  Johnson  were 
her  favourite  authors,  and  she  also  derived  great  pleasure  from  the 
poetry  of  Sir  Walter  Scott     An  account  is  given  by  one  of  her 
nieces  of  her  treatment  of  children.     "  Her  first  charm  to  children 
was  great  sweetness  of  manner.    She  seemed  to  love  you,  and  you 
loved  her  in  return.     This,  as  well  as  I  can  now  recollect,  was  what 
I  felt  in  my  early  days,  before  I  was  old  enough  to  be  amused  by 
her  cleverness.     But  soon  came  the  delight  of  her  playful  talk.     She 
could  make  everything  amusing  to  a  child.     Then,  as  I  got  older, 
when  cousins  came  to  share  the  entertainment,  she  would  tell  us  the 
most  delightful  stories,  chiefly  of  Fairyland,  and  her  iairies  had  all 
characters  of  their  own.     The  tale  was  invented,  I  am  sure,  at  the 
moment,    and   was   continued  for  two  or   three   days,  if  occasion 
served."     Miss  Austen  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  which 
led  her  to  play  with  all  the  commonplaces  of  everyday  life,  whether 
as  regarded  persons  or  things  ;  but  her  emotions  were  too  deep  to 
allow  her  to  make  sport  of  life's  serious  duties  or  responsibilities, 
nor  did  she  ever  turn  individuals  into  ridicule.     Her  fun  was  harm- 
less and  really  amusing,  never  severely  censorious,  or,  what  is  still 


*More  Views  of  yane  Austen.  37 

liaidei  to  bear,  given  to  abuse  by  contempluous  ridicule.  Two 
epigrams  are  preserved,  which  show  that  she  could  occasionally 
throw  off  her  pleasantry  in  verse.  Reading  in  the  newspapers,  on 
one  occasion,  of  the  marriage  of  a  Mr.  Cell  to  a  Miss  Gill,  of 

I  Eastbourne,  she  wrote  down  the  following  impromptu  ; — 


Al  Ea«bourDe  Mr.  Cell,  from  being  pctlectly  well, 
Became  dreadfully  ID,  for  love  of  Miss  Gill. 
So  be  said,  with  some  sighs,  I'm  the  slave  of  your  lii 
Oh,  rrslore,  if  jou  plea^,  by  accepting  my  mi. 


A  better  impromptu  still,  perhaps,  was  the  succeeding  one,  on  the 
tuarriage  of  a  middle-aged  flirt  with  a  Mr.  Wake,  whom,  it  was 
supposed,  she  would  scarcely  have  accepted  in  her  youth  : — 

^^[a^i^,  goo<l- humoured,  and  handsome,  and  tall, 
For  a  husband  was  at  her  last  slake  ; 
And  having  in  vain  danced  at  many  a  ball. 
Is  now  happy  Xajump  al  a  Waki. 

Having  seen  the  very  popular  Miss  O'Neil  as  "  Isabella,"  Miss 
Austen  WTOte  to  a  friend  :  "  I  do  not  think  she  was  quite  equal  to 
my  expectation.  I  fancy  I  want  something  more  than  can  be 
Acting  seldom  satisfies  me.  I  took  two  pocket-handkerchiefs,  but 
had  very  little  occasion  for  either.  She  is  an  elegant  creature, 
however,  and  hugs  Mr.  Young  delightfully."  The  woman  who  could 
laugh  and  jest  with  the  light-hearted  was  equally  ready  to  comfort 
the  unhappy  or  to  nurse  the  sick.  Ladies  will  be  glad  to  know 
something  of  her  appearance  and  dress.  Mr.  Austen  Leigh  reports 
that  "in  person  she  was  very  attractive  ;  her  figure  was  rather  tall 
and  slender,  her  step  light  and  firm,  and  her  whole  appearance 
expressive  of  health  and  animation.  In  complexion  she  was  a  clear 
brunette,  with  a  rich  colour;  she  had  full  round  cheeks,  with  mouih 
and  nose  smaL  and  well  formed,  bright  hazel  eyes,  and  brown  hair, 
forming  natural  curls  close  round  her  face.  If  not  so  regularly 
handsome  as  her  sister,  yet  her  countenance  had  a  peculiar  charm  of 
iis  own  to  the  eyes  of  most  beholders.  At  the  time  of  whicli  I  am 
now  writing  she  never  was  seen,  either  morning  or  evening,  without 
a  cap ;  I  believe  that  she  and  her  sister  were  generally  thought  to 
have  taken  to  the  garb  of  middle  age  earlier  than  their  years  or  their 
looks  required ;  and  that,  though  remarkably  neat  in  their  dress  as 
in  all  their  ways,  they  were  scarcely  sufficiently  regardful  of  the 
fashionable  or  the  becoming."  The  portrait  prefixed  to  the  collected 
edition  of  Miss  Austen's  works,  recently  issued,  exactly  bears  out 
^is  description.     Except  through  the  eye,  however,  ihc  ivi\.e\kt.\,  q? 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine, 

this  great  nrUer  is  scarcely  indicated  in  the  portrait ;  and  ladies  o[ 
the  present  day,  in  observing  the  style  of  dress,  will  be  apt  lo  think 
that  they  have  improved  vastly,  as  regards  grace  and  beauty,  upon 
the  costume  In  vogue  with  their  grandmothers. 

The  "Letters  of  Jane  Austen,"  recently  edited  by  Lord 
Brabourne,  add  very  little  knowledge  of  a  personal  character  to  that 
we  already  enjoyed.  Nor  are  the  letters  themselves  valuable  from 
the  literary  point  of  view,  and  if  Jane  Austen  were  now  living  she 
would  probably  be  extremely  angry  at  their  publication.  If  anything 
could  damage  the  fame  of  a  writer  already  well  established  it  would 
be  the  issue  of  such  works  of  supererogation  as  that  undertaken  by 
Lord  Brabourne.  There  are,  perhaps,  twenty  pages  in  the  two 
volumes  issued  by  his  lordship  which  arc  either  amusing  or  valuable, 
lis  illustrating  Jane  Austen's  character  and  epistolary  skill ;  but  as 
the  world  is  so  very  busy,  and  has  so  many  important  things  to 
attend  to,  it  could  well  have  spared  the  remainder. 

But  it  is  now  time  that  we  gave  a  taste  of  the  quality  of  Jane 
Austen's  writings.  Several  allusions  have  already  been  made  If 
ihcir  hiunour,  and  hc  will  i-ndeavoiir  to  justify  them  by  a  quotation 
ITMm  "Kinma.'  Jt  cuncern=  that  very  voluble  lady,  MJss  Bales, 
and  is  in  its  way  as  excellent  a  bit  of  comedy  as  could  well  be 
found  : — 

Miss  Bates  and  Miss  Kairtui,  CKoried  1>y  ihe  Iwo  gentlemen,  walkcS  into  ihc 
rtwm  ;  and  Mrs.  Ellon  seemed  to  think  it  us  much  her  duly  as  Mrs.  W«ion's  (o 
receive  them.  Her  gestures  and  movements  miglit  be  undeisloud  by  any  one  who 
looked  on  like  Emma;  but  her  words,  everjbody's  words,  were  soon  lust  under 
the  incessant  How  of  Miss  Dales,  who  came  in  lalkinj^,  itnd  liad  not  Rnished  her 
speech  under  many  minutes  after  her  being  admitled  into  ihe  circle  at  the  fire, 
As  the  door  opened  she  was  bcnrd — 

"  Ho  very  obliging  of  you  !— no  rain  at  all.  Nothing  to  signify.  I  do  not 
care  tor  myself.  Quite  thick  shoes.  And  Jane  declares— Well  !"  (asswonssihe 
was  within  the  door),  "Well  !  this  ii  brilliant,  indeed  !  This  is  admirable  I 
Excellently  contrived,  upon  roy  word.  Nothing  wanting.  Could  nut  have 
imagined  it.  So  well  lighted  up  !  Jane,  Jane,  look  t  did  you  ever  see  any- 
thing? Oh  t  ,Mr.  Weston,  you  mu«l  really  have  had  Aladdin's  lamp.  Good 
Mrs.  Stokes  would  not  know  her  own  room  agiin.  I  saw  her  as  I  came  ia  \  de 
was  standing  in  the  enlmnce.  '  Oh,  Mrs.  blokes,'  said  I,  but  I  had  not  lime 
for  more." 

She  was  now  met  by  Mrs,  Weston. 

"  Very  well,  I  thank  you,  ma'am.  I  ho|ic  you  are  ijuile  well.  Very  happy 
lo  heat  it.  Su  afraid  you  might  liave  a  headache !  seeing  you  pass  by  so  dAen, 
and  knowing  how  much  trouble  you  must  have.  Delighted  lo  hear  it,  indeed  1 
Ah  t  dear  Mrs.  Ellon,  so  obliged  lo  you  for  the  carriage  ;  excellent  time  ;  Juk 
and  I  quite  ready.  Did  not  keep  the  horses  a  moment.  Most  comfortable  o 
liage.     Oh  !  and  1  am  sure  our  thanks  are  due  lo  you.  Mis.  Weston,  ( 

}-h3.  EUiiD  had  most  kiudly  sent  Jnue  :v  iiolt,  ur  we  hhould  have  been. 


Afore  Views  of  yanc  Auslat.  39 

b  offeis  in  one  day  I     Never  were  such  neighbouis,     I  ,aiii  \o  my 

w,  •  Upon   my  word,   ma'im,'     Thank  you,    my  mothci   is   rematliably 

Gone  lo  Sir.  Woodhousc's.     I  made  her  tike  het  shawl— for  ihc  evenings 

oi  wann— het  laige  new  shawl,  Mis.  DLion's  wedding  pieseni.     So  kind  of 

3  think  o(  my  mothci !     Bought  at  Weymouth,  you  know  |  Mr.  Dixon's 

There  were  three  others,  Jane  snys,  whidi  lliey  hesilaled  about  some 

Colonel  Campbell  taihei  preferred  an  olive. — My  dear  Jane,  ate  you  sure 

I  your  feet  ?    It  wai  but  a  drop  or  two,  but  t  am  eo  iifraid  ;  but 

1;  Fnnk  Churchill  was  so  extremely — and  there  was  a  mat  lo  slep  upon.     I 

I  forget  his  extreme  politeness.     Oh  I  Mr.  Frank  Churchill,  I  niusi 

1    my  toother's  spectacles  have  never  been  in  fault  since  ;  the  rivet  never 

t  out  again.     My  niolher  often  talks  of  your  good-nnlurc  :  docs  not  she, 

~J»De?      Do   not  we   often  talk   of  Mr.    Frank   Churchill?     Ah!   here's  Mrs. 

Woodhouse.     Dear  Mrs.  Wtiodhouse,  how  do  you  do?    Very  well,  I  thank  yira, 

quite  well.     This  is  meeting  quite  in  Fairyland.     Such  a.  traneformation  I    Muit 

not  compliment,  I  know  "  (eyeingEmma  most  complacently) — ''that  would  be  rude; 

but  upon  my  word,  Mis,  Woodhoutc,  yon  do  look— how  do  you  like  Jane's  hair  ? 

Vou  arc  ■  jodge.     She  did  it  alt  herself.     Quite  wondetful  how  she  does  hci 

hair  '.    No  lutlidicsicr  from  London,  I  think,  could — Ah  I  Dr.  Hughes,  I  declare — 

d  Mrv  Hughes.     Must  go  and  speak  to  Dr.  and  Mis.  Hughes  foi  a  moment. 

?      How   do  you   do?     Very   well,    T  thank   you.      Tliis  is 

jhirnl,  "is  11  1101?    Mlicrc  i^  dear  Mr.   Ridiatd  ?    Oh,   there  he  is,     Hon'i 

Muob  better  eiupIo}e<i  talking  io  itie  young  ladies.     Ho>v  do  yoii 

^  Mt.   Kichard?    I  saw  you  the  other  day  as  you  rode  through  the  town. 

P'JKiS.   Otway,   r  protest  i  and  good  Mr.   Otway,  and   Miss   Otway,   and  Miss 

P'CUcdine;     Such  a  host  of  friends  I    And  Mr.  George  and  Mr.  Arthur !     How 

0  ytni  do?    How  do  you  all  do?    QuJle  well,   I  am  much  ohliged  lo  yoH. 

Kevet  betlcr.     Don't  I  hear  another  carriage?    Who  can  Ihts  be  ?    Very  likely 

Ihe  worthy  Cotes.     Upon  my  word,  this  is  charming,  to  be  standing  utiout  among 

iuch  bienili  !    And  such  a  noble  lire  1    I  am  quile  roasted.     No  colfee,  1  thank 

JOB,  for  me :  never  lake  coBee.     A  liltle  Ita,  if  you  please,  sir,  by-andliy.     No 

hurry.      Oh  \  here  it  comes.      Everything  so  goort  !  " 

This  scene  occurreti  at  a  ball.     Wlieii  supper  was  aiinouncctJ, 
Miss  Bates  resumed  her  inconseiiuctit  eloquence,  and  it  continued 
rithout  interruption  until  her  being  seated  at  table  and  taking  up 
spoon. 

Jane,  Jane,  my  dear  Jane,  where  a le  you?  Here  is  your  lippet.  Mrs. 
Weston  begs  you  to  put  on  your  tippel.  She  says  she  is  afraid  there  will  lic 
dnughts  in  the  passage,  though  eveiylhing  hat  been  done— one  door  nailed  up— 
quaalilies  of  mailing— roy  dear  Jane,  indeed  you  must.  Mr.  Churchill,  oh  1 
you  u«  loo  obliging  t  l^Iow  well  you  put  it  on  !— so  gratified  !  Excellent 
rtancing,  indeed  ! — Yes,  my  dear,  I  ran  home,  as  I  said  1  should,  lo  help  grand- 
mamma (o  bed,  and  got  l»ck  again,  and  nobody  missed  me.  I  set  off  without 
laying  a  word,  jiut  as  I  told  you.  Grandmamma  was  quile  well,  had  a  charming 
eveatog  with  Tilr.  Woodhouse,  a  vast  deul  of  chat,  ;ind  backgammon.  Tea  was 
nude  downstairs,  biscuits  and  l>akcd  apples  and  wine  before  she  came  away  : 
atnuing  lock  in  some  of  hci  throws  :  and  she  inquired  a  great  deal  about  you, 
bow  you  were  amused,  and  who  were  your  parlnen;.  '  Oh  I '  said  I,  '  I  shall 
foreslalt  Jane  ;  I  left  her  il.incinf  "ilh  Mr.  George  Otwa^  i  ^^'^  ""^ ^"^'" 


Mis 

■hitli 

1". 


J 


I 


40  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

[ell  jtia  all  about  ii  herself  lo-morrow  ;  her  lirst  p.irtner  was  Mr. 
not  know  who  will  ask  her  next,  perhaps  Mr.  WiUinm  Cox.'  My  dear  sir,  you 
are  too  obliging.  Is  Ibere  nobody  you  would  not  ratber? — lam  not  helpless. 
Sir,  yoo  are  most  kiniJ.  Upon  my  word,  Jane  on  one  ann,  and  me  on  tbe  olher ! 
Stop,  slop,  Ut  us  stand  a  Utile  bacli,  Mrs.  Ellon  is  going ;  dear  Mrs,  Ellon,  bow 
elegant  she  looks ! — beautiful  lace  !— now  we  nil  follow  in  her  train.  Quite  the 
(lueen  of  Ihe  evening ! — Well,  here  we  are  at  Ibe  passage.  Two  step*,  Jane, 
take  care  of  the  two  steps.  Oh  1  no,  Ibere  is  bul  one.  Well.  I  nis  persuaded 
there  were  two.  How  very  odd  1  I  was  convinced  there  were  two,  and  there  is 
bul  one.  I  never  saw  inytbing  equal  to  the  comfort  and  style— candles  every- 
wbcre.  I  was  telling  you  of  your  gramimamma,  Jane— there  was  a  little 
disappointment.  The  baked  apples  and  biscuits.  Eicellent  in  their  way,  you 
know  J  but  there  was  a  delicate  fricassee  of  sweetbread  and  some  asparagus 
brought  in  at  first,  and  good  Mr.  Woodhouse,  not  thinking  the  asparagus  quile 
boiled  enough,  sent  it  all  out  again.  Now,  ihetc  is  notbing  grandmamma  loves 
belter  than  sweetbread  and  asparagus,  so  she  was  rather  disappointed;  but  we 
agreed  we  would  not  speak  of  it  to  anybody,  for  fear  of  its  getting  round  to  dear 
Miss  Woodhouse,  who  would  be  so  very  much  concerned  !  Well,  this  is 
brillianll— I  am  all  ammement!— Could  not  have  supposed  anything! — such 
el^ante  and  profusion  I  I  have  seen  nothing  like  it  since— Well,  where  shall 
we  sit?  Where  shall  we  sit?  Anywhere,  so  that  Jane  is  not  in  a  draqght. 
Where  /sit  is  of  no  consequence.  Oh  \  do  you  recommend  this  side?  Well,  I 
nm  sure,  Mr.  Churchill— only  it  seems  too  good— but  just  as  you  please.  What 
you  direct  in  this  house  cannot  lie  wrong.  Dear  Jane,  how  shall  we  ever 
recollect  half  the  disbci  for  grandmamma?  Soup,  too  !  Bless  me  !  I  should 
not  be  helped  so  soon,  but  it  smells  most  excellent,  and  I  cannot  heipbi^nning." 

Miss  Auslen  is  one  of  those  writers  who  suffer  when  we  attempt 
to  represent  their  talent  through  the  medium  of  detached  passages. 
She  neither  strains  after  the  hysterics  of  emotion,  nor  high-sounding 
descriptions.  Her  works  must  be  judged  of  in  the  whole,  and  then 
it  will  be  seen  how  natural,  and  therefore  how  powerful,  are  her 
delineations  of  character.  She  individualises  without  effort,  and  her 
various  personages  grow  upon  us  silently,  and  yet  with  penetrating 
force.  It  has  been  said  that  our  author  never  descends  to  the  vulgar 
— a  just  remark — though  tiiere  is  a  saufrois  of  vulgarity  about  the 
character  of  7~horpe,  in  "  Northanger  Abbey."  Her  drawing  of  real 
English  gentlemen  is  most  successful — and  she  has  given  us  a  whole 
gallery  of  characters  whom  we  may  find  typified  in  Bertram  and 
Knightley.  As  she  does  not  depend  upon  plot  or  striking  situations 
for  effect,  we  arc  unable  to  extract  from  her  novels  passages  illus- 
trative of  her  best  qualities,  as  is  the  case  with  most  other  writers. 
Thissketchof  John  Thorpe,  however — with  his  touch  of  braggadocio 
and  snobbery,  yet  jovial  and  good-humnured  ivithal — is  graphically 
done,  and  seems  to  bring  the  very  man  himself  before  us  : — 

John  Thorpe,  who,  in  the  meantime,  bad  been  giving  orders  about  tbe  hor»es, 
soon  Joined  tbe  ladies,  and  froqi  hlni  she  (Catherine]  directly  received  the  ^mends 


i 


I 


Mere   Views  of  yane  Austen. 

irfiich  were  ber  due  :  for  while  he  slightly  and  catelesslf  touched  the  hand  of 
lobelli,  on  fact  he  bestowed  a  whole  icrape  ind  half  i  short  bow.  He  was  a 
lUmt  FOUDg  man,  of  roiddling  height,  who,  with  a  plain  face  and  ungrnceful  form, 
stmrd  (earful  of  being  loo  handsiTine,  unless  he  wore  the  dress  of  a  groom,  and 
ion  iDUich  like  a  genileman  unless  he  were  easy  where  he  ought  to  be  civil,  and 
impudent  where  he  might  be  allowed  lo  be  easy.  He  took  out  hii  waleh  :  "  How 
lotig  do  you  think  we  ha*e  !>eeo  running  it  from  Tetbury,  Miss  Morland  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  the  distance."    Her  brother  lold  her  that  it  was  twenly-lhrce 

••  7S/T<-and-lweoly,"  cried  Thorpe  ;  "  liTC-and-lwenly  if  it  is  an  inch." 
Norland  remoiutiated,  pleaded  Ibe  authority  of  road  books,  innkeepers,  and 
nileslones  ;  but  his  friend  disregarded  ihem  all ;  he  had  a  surer  test  of  distance. 
"  I  know  it  must  be  tivc-and- twenty,"  said  he,  "  by  the  lime  we  have  been  doing 
ll.  It  is  now  halt  after  one  ;  we  drove  out  of  the  inn  ynrd  al  Teibury  as 
the  town  clock  struck  eleven  \  and  I  defy  any  man  in  England  to  mnke  my 
bone  go  less  than  ten  miles  an  hour  in  harness  ;  that  makes  it  exactly  twenty- 
fre." 

"  Vou  have  lost  an  hour,"  bSid  Morland  ;  "  it  was  only  ten  o'clock  when  we 
(■me  from  Tclbury." 

'■  Ten  o'clock  !  It  was  eleven,  upon  my  soul !  I  counted  every  stroke. 
This  brother  of  yours  would  persuade  me  out  of  my  sen&ea,  Miss  Morland  ;  do 
but  look  at  my  horse;  did  you  ever  see  an  animal  so  made  for  speed  in  your  life?  " 
(The  serruit  had  just  mounted  the  carriage,  and  was  driving  off.)  '■  Such  true 
blood  I  Three  hours  and  a  half,  indeed,  coming  only  Ihree-and -twenty  miles  I 
look  «t  that  creature,  >nd  suppose  it  po^lble,  if  you  can." 
"  He  (Avi  look  very  hot,  (o  be  sure." 

"  Hot  !  he  had  Dot  turned  a  hair  till  we  came  to  Walcot  Church  :  but  look 
at  hit  forehand ;  look  al  his  lobs ;  only  see  how  he  moves  ;  that  horse  tamiel 
^  IcK  than  ten  miles  an  hour ;  lie  his  legs,  and  he  will  get  on.  What  do  you 
Ibink  of  my  gig.  Miss  Morland  ?  a  neat  one,  ii  it  nol  ?  Well  hung  ;  lawn  buill  ; 
I  hare  Dot  hod  it  a  month.  It  was  buill  for  a  Chrislcburch  man,  a  friend  of 
mine;  a  eery  good  sort  of  fellow;  he  ran  it  a  few  weeks  till,  I  believe,  it  was  con- 
venient lo  hare  done  wilh  it.  I  happened  just  then  lo  be  looking  out  for  some 
light  thing  of  the  kind,  though  I  had  pretty  well  determined  on  B  Gunicle  loo  ; 
bil  I  chanced  to  meet  him  oo  Magdalen  Bridge,  as  he  was  driving  into  Oxford 
Utt  Icnn  :  ■  Ah  1  Thorpe,'  said  he,  '  do  you  happen  to  want  such  a  little  thing 
M  Ihis  ?  It  it  a  eapilal  one  of  the  kind,  but  I  am  cursed  liied  of  it.'  ■  Oh  I  d— 
It,'  laid  I,  '  I  am  your  man  ;  what  do  you  ask  ? '  And  how  much  do  you  ihink 
lie  did.  Miss  MorUnd  ?  " 
\        "1  am  sore  I  cannot  guess,  al  all. " 

K.      "  Curriele-hung,  you  see;  seal,  trunk,  sword-casc,  splashing- board,  lamps, 
■,»lver  moulding— all,  you  see,  complete  j  the  ironwork  as  good  as  new,  or  t'clter. 
[He  asked  fifty  guineas  ;  I  closed  with  him  directly,  threw  down   the  money,  and 
the  carriage  was  mine." 

"  And  I  am  sure,"  said  Calhctinc,  "  I  know  so  liiilc  of  such  things,  ihal  I 
(annot  judge  wheihft  it  was  cheap  or  dear." 

■'  Neither  one  nor  I'olher  ;  I  might  have  got  it  for  less,  I  dare  say  ;  but  I  hale 
I  ^l^gglingi  and  poor  Freeman  wanted  cash," 

"  That  was  very  good-nalnred  of  you,"  said  Catherine,  t]uile  pleased. 

-  it,  when  one  has  the  means  of  doing  a  kipd  Ihing  by  a  friend,  I 
Ikate  tot^pii'ul-" 


42  TJu  Geniieman's  Magazine. 

An  admirable  seniiment,  if  somewhat  emphalicall)'  expressed. 
But  this  extract  well  shows  the  whole  style  and  character  of  the 

How  comes  it  that  of  all  the  old  novels,  so  few  have  survived  to 
our  own  day  ?  AVhere  twenty  liave  perished,  only  one  lives  to  be 
read  and  remembered.  We  have  Fielding,  Smollett,  Richardson, 
Goldsmith,  and  Jane  Austen  ;  but  the  works  of  other  novelists,  for 
which  immortality  was  predicted  at  the  beginning  of  the  century, 
have  sunk  beyond  revival  in  the  waters  of  oblivion.  There  must  be 
some  secret  power,  some  salt  of  the  intellect,  which  preserves  alive 
those  works  which  have  reached  us,  and  which  seem  as  fresh  and 
entertaining  to  us  as  they  appeared  to  the  contemporaries  of  their 
various  authors.  Macaulay  indicated  some  of  the  reasons  for  the 
popularity  of  Miss  Austen  in  defining  the  chief  qualities  of  her 
novels ;  and  at  the  risk  of  repeating  a  passage  already  familiar  to 
the  reader,  we  will  cite  this  eminent  writer's  criticism  ;— "Shakespeare 
has  had  neither  equal  nor  second.  But  among  the  writers  who  have 
approached  nearest  to  the  manner  of  the  great  master,  ive  have  no 
hesitation  in  ]>lacing  Jane  .Austen,  a  woman  of  whom  England  is 
junily  pioud.  She  has  given  us  a  multitude  of  characters,  all,  in  a 
certain  sense,  commonplace — all  such  as  we  meet  every  day.  Yet 
they  are  all  as  perfectly  discriminated  from  each  Other  as  if  they  were 
the  most  eccentric  of  human  beings.  There  are,  for  example,  four 
(.lergymen,  none  of  whom  we  should  be  surprised  to  find  in  any 
jiarsonage  in  the  kingdom  :  Mr.  Edward  Ferrars,  Mr.  Henry  Tilney, 
Mr,  Edmund  Bertram,  and  Mr.  Elton.  They  are  all  specimens  of 
the  upper  part  of  the  middle  class.  I'hcy  have  all  been  liberally 
educated.  They  ail  lie  under  the  restraints  of  the  same  sacred  pro- 
fession J  they  arc  all  young ;  they  are  all  in  love.  Not  one  of  them 
has  any  hobby-horse,  to  use  the  phrase  of  Sterne  ;  not  one  has  a 
ruling  passion,  such  as  wc  read  of  in  Pope.  '\\'ho  would  not  have 
expected  them  to  be  insipid  likenesses  of  each  other  ?  No  such 
thing.  Harpagon  is  not  more  unlike  to  Jourdain,  Joseph  Surface  is 
not  more  unlike  to  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger,  than  every  one  of  Miss 
Austen's  young  divines  to  all  his  reverend  brethren.  And  almost  all 
this  is  done  by  touches  so  delicate,  that  they  elude  analysis,  that 
they  defy  the  powers  of  description,  and  that  we  know  them  to  exist 
only  by  the  general  effect  to  which  they  have  contributed."  In  the 
last  sentence,  Macaulay  has  happily  described  the  general  impression 
left  upon  the  mind  by  the  writings  of  Miss  Austen.  Her  quiet  and 
unobtrusive  power  produced  a  similar  effect  upon  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
In  his  diary  these  words  appear,  dated  March  14,   i8;6 :  "Read 


I 


) 


More  Views  of  yane  Austen.  43 

ig&m,  fui  the  third  time  at  least,  Miss  Austeu'5  finely-wtitlcn  novel 
of  '  Pride  and  Prejudice.'  Thai  young  lady  had  a  talent  for  describing 
Ihe  involvements  and  feelings  and  characters  of  ordinary  life  which 
ii  to  mc  the  most  wonderful  1  ever  met  with.  The  big  Bow-wow 
iirain  I  can  do  myself  like  any  now  going ;  but  the  exquisite  touch 
which  renders  ordinary  commonplace  things  and  characters  in- 
teresting from  the  truth  of  the  description  and  the  sentiment  is 
denied  to  me."  It  is  certainly  not  a  little  remarkable  that  an  author 
whose  "  books  contain  nothing  more  excidng  than  a  village  ball  or 
ihc  gossip  of  a  village  spinster's  tea-table  ;  nothing  more  tragic  than 
the  overturning  of  a  chaise  in  a  sol^  ditch,  or  a  party  being  caught 
in  a  shower  of  rain  going  to  church,"  should  thus  liave  extracted 
tulogies  from  the  finest  spirits  of  the  age. 

A  recent  critic  has  quarrelled  with  her  on  the  ground  that  her 
clergymen  are  not  such  clergymen  as  would  satisfy  us  if  they  were 
thus  drawn  in  stories  written  at  the  present  time.  This  may  be  so  ; 
she  has  drawn  the  dergj'  of  her  own  day  ;  and  they  were  not  in  the 
hahit  of  obtruding  ihe  cloth,  neither  did  they  claim  to  be  xstlieti'. 
a>  tht  wor'l  is  now  understmid.  .Many  of  ilie  <.ierg}inen  Miss  Austeu 
his  dtawo  are  tine  manly  fellows  :  Uit  in  mingling  in  society  they 
do  not  make  everybody  else  uncomfortable  by  continually  insisting 
upon  the  nature  of  their  profession.  Yet  it  must  be  admitted  that 
some  of  them  fail  in  rising  to  a  true  conception  of  the  sacred  and 
dignified  nature  of  the  office  of  a  parish  priest.  Since  Miss  Austen's 
time,  conscience  has  been  quickened  in  the  Church.  There  is  now 
an  earnestness  abroad  to  which  the  clergy  were  formerly  comparative 
strangers. 

lo  commenting  upon  the  character  of  Miss  Austen's  novels, 
another  writer,  who  until  quite  recently  was  in  our  midst,  dejrased 
that  he  found  httle  humour  in  ihem.  This  is  an  extraordinary  and 
almost  incredible  mistake.  There  is  very  considerable  humour  in 
the  novels,  but  it  is  a  humour  very  difficult  to  define.  It  does  not 
consist  in  the  observations  of  the  author  so  much,  but  radiates  from 
the  characters  themselves^ — a  result  due  to  their  truthful  delineation. 
Miss  Austen  has  invented  many  persons  who  cannot  be  said  to  talk 
wittily,  or  who  give  exiiression  to  isolated  jeitx  iTeiprit,  and  yet 
every  one  recognises  them  and  classifies  them  as  distinctly  humorous 
characters.  As  a  penetrating  critic  has  well  said :  "  Like  Shake- 
speare, she  shows  as  admirable  a  discrimination  in  the  character  of 
fools  as  of  people  of  sense  ;  a  merit  which  is  far  from  common.  To 
invent  indeed  a  conversation  fvill  of  wisdom  or  of  wit,  requires  that 
the  writer  should  himself  possess  ability  ;  but  the  converse  does  not 


hold  good,  it  15  no  fool  that  cm  describe  fools  well ;  and  many  ij 
have  succeeded  pretty  well  in  painting  superior  characters,  have 
failed  in  giving  individuality  to  those  weaker  ones  which  it  is  neces- 
sary to  introduce  in  order  to  give  a  faithful  representation  of  real  life. 
They  exhibit  to  us  mere  folly  in  the  abstract,  forgetting  that  to  the 
eye  of  the  skilful  naturalist  the  insects  on  a  leaf  present  as  wide 
differences  as  exist  between  the  Hon  and  the  elephant.  Slender,  and 
Shallow,  and  Aguecheck,  as  Shakespeare  has  painted  them,  though 
equally  fools,  resemble  one  another  no  more  than  Richard,  and 
Macbeth,  and  Jdius  CKsar;  and  Miss  Austen's  Mrs.  Bennet,  Mr. 
Rushworth,  and  Miss  Bates  are  no  more  alike  than  her  Darcy, 
Knightley,  and  Edmund  Bertram."  The  faculty  of  humour  was,  in 
fact,  very  strongly  developed  in  Jane  Austen,  but  she  was  fastidious 
in  the  use  of  it.  Her  minuteness  of  detail  has  been  objected  to; 
but  while  on  the  part  of  a  tyro  this  would  undoubtedly  become 
wearisome,  the  same  cannot  be  said  with  regard  to  the  author  of 
"  Pride  and  Prejudice."  Dutch  painting  may  be  high  art,  notwith- 
standing its  minutiK  ;  and  faithfully  to  depict  the  trivial  may  require 
a  genius  equal  to  that  which  shall  adequately  describe  the  magni- 
ficent  and  the  sublime. 

The  principal  reasons,  therefore,  for  Miss  Austen's  hold  upon  the 
reading  public — a  hold  which  we  may  reasonably  believe  will  be 
constant  and  enduring — are  not  far  to  seek.  Adopting  a  totally 
different  course  from  Mrs.  RadclifTe  and  her  school,  she  substituted 
reality  for  excitement.  The  change  was  agreeable  and  refreshing. 
It  has  been  observed  that,  although  novels  are  supposed  to  give  a 
false  picture  of  life  and  manners,  this  is  not  necessarily  so.  As 
regards  many  novelists,  unquestionably  the  accusation  is  true,  but 
no  one  can  really  feel  its  applicability  to  the  works  of  Jane  Austen. 
Her  characters  are  not  unnatural,  neither  are  her  incidents  in  the 
least  degree  improbable.  She  too  thoroughly  understands  human 
nature  to  exaggerate  its  sentiments  beyond  recognition.  Miss  Austen 
is  also  a  moral  writer  in  the  highest  sense — that  is,  there  is  a  high 
tone  pervading  all  her  works ;  this  is  no  more  than  the  natural  out- 
come of  her  own  life  and  character.  But  she  has  also  great  literary 
claims.  Besides  her  capacity  for  minute  detail  as  affecting  her 
dramalis  persona^  already  insisted  upon,  she  has  vivid  powers  of 
description,  all  the  more  effective,  perhaps,  because  they  are  held  in 
check  by  a  sound  judgment  and  a  well-balanced  imagination.  She 
never  exhausts  a  scene  by  what  is  called  word-painting.  She  indi- 
cates its  main  features,  and  describes  the  general  effect  it  produces 
upon  the  spectator,  rather  than  recapitulates  the  size,  weight,  and 


More  Viffws  of  yane  AusleH.  45 

colour  of  its  various  component  elements.  To  say  that  she  has  a 
strong  insight  into  female  character  is  almost  superfluous.  George 
Eliot  docs  not  enter  more  deeply  into  the  workings  of  the  female 
mind  and  heart  than  she  does.  Add  to  all  these  claims  that  our 
author's  novels  are  perfectly  unexceptionable  from  every  point  of 
view,  and  that  they  combine  rational  amusement  with  no  small 
degree  of  instruction,  and  we  have  advanced  tolerably  Bufficient 
grounds  for  the  continuous  favour  with  which  they  have  been  and 
arc  still  regarded. 

The  critic  who  said  that  these  novels  added  a  new  pleasure  to 
existence  was  not  wide  of  the  mark.  In  Miss  Austen's  later  books, 
the  most  exacting  may  discover  a  maturity  of  thought  and  a  felicity 
of  expression  seldom  attained  by  members  of  her  craft  ;  and  these 
nignicd  still  greater  achievements  in  the  future  had  her  life  been 
■pared.  In  no  instance  is  it  possible  to  sum  up  the  claims  and 
characteristics  of  a  writer  of  the  first  rank  in  a  single  phrase  ;  but  if 
it  were  demanded  that  wc  should  aiicmpt  this  in  the  case  of  Jane 
Austen,  we  should  aver  that  her  writings  have  not  become  obsolete, 
and  never  will  become  obsolete,  because  they  are  just  and  faithful 
IBuiscripls  of  human  nature.  It  is  in  this  all-imponant  respect  that 
e  Ls  able  to  touch  the  hand  of  Shakespeare. 


4&  The  Geiiflt-man's  Magazine. 


A 


ON  GETTING  UP  EARLY. 

JULIUS  said  lo  me  the  other  day,  "  Vou  must  have  a  very  bad 
conscience  if  you  can't  lie  in  bed  in  the  morning."  Julius  is  a 
young  man,  with  just  enough  to  live  on  without  working,  and  so  he 
does  nothing— nothing  for  his  living,  I  mean — and  nothing  worth 
doing  besides.  His  friends  sometimes  tell  him  that  it  is  possible 
to  play  billiards  too  much ;  that  in  these  days,  when  horses  do  not 
always  win  on  their  own  merits,  besides  it  being  difficult  to  find  those 
merits  out,  betting  even  in  a  mild  way  had  better  be  avoided  by 
a  person  whose  income  is  at  once  fixed  and  moderate.  In  vain. 
Julius  is  of  the  easy-going,  nerveless,  flabby-minded  sort.  He  is 
not  exactly  wicked,  but  prone  to  self-indulgence ;  and,  perhaps  for 
want  of  sometliing  belter  lo  do,  he  has  an  inveterate  habit  of  lying  in 
bed  in  the  morning. 

"Many  statesmen    do   the    same,"  lie  remarks.      "Beaconsfield 

"    Stop,  my  friend ;  had  you  been  debating  in  the  House  till 

three  or  four,  you  would  have  as  good  a  reason  for  lying  in  bed  as 
many  statesmen ;  as  it  is,  your  mind  and  body  are  deteriorating 
because  you  have  no  outward  pressure  to  make  you  use  the  talents 
j'ou  possess,  and  no  inward  motive  powerful  enough  lo  enable  you  to 
resist  your  constitutional  idleness.  Julius,  in  fact,  belongs  to  the 
lie-abed  class. 

Now,  I  am  quite  aware  that  some  people— especially  women — 
require  a  great  deal  of  sleep ;  but,  depend  u]ion  it,  as  we  all  habitually 
eat  and  drink  too  much — so  say  the  doctors— wc,  most  of  us  who  can 
at  alt  afford  to  do  so,  sleep  loo  much.  Sleep,  like  any  other  appetite, 
can  be  cultivated  and  pampered  ;  and  just  as  every  mouthful  of  food 
more  than  we  really  want  is  waste,  and  something  worse,  so  every 
wink  of  sleep  more  than  we  need  is  a  dead  loss,  and  that  without  the 
redeeming  quality  of  over-eating  and  drinking,  viz.  pleasure.  For  to 
be  asleep  is  not  pleasure,  simply  dead  loss.  To  sleep  from  eleven 
till  nine  the  next  morning  is  too  much  ;  from  eleven  lill  six  should 
be,  and  is  for  one  averagely  hea!thy  and  normally  constituted,  quite 
enough.  The  point  1  want  to  fix  on  especially  is  those  two  precious 
hours  before  breakfast.     How  many  people  only  begin  their  day  after 


tlire 

pis 


On  Getting  up  Early.  i^j 

Ineikrajt,  say  about  ten  o'clock!  I  myself  lived  far  nearly  for  ly  years 
nilhout  realising  that  I  had  thrown  away  about  21,900  hours  of  good 
wwking  life.  Of  course  the  candle  cannot  be  burned  at  both  ends. 
Von  must  get  your  sleep.  I  have  known  more  than  one  professional 
fun  succumb  to  the  habit  of  retiring  loo  late  and  rising  too  early. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  my  poor  friend  the  late  Baron  Amphleti's 
oiUapse.  As  Q.C.  he  never  should  have  gone  into  Parliament,  and 
irhen  he  retired  from  the  House  00  a  judgeship  the  mischief  was  done. 
He  used  to  be  up  late  with  briefs,  or  down  at  the  House  till  two  and 
iliree,  rise  at  six,  light  his  own  fire,  and  work  (ill  nine.  All  such 
iter-pressure  is,  of  course,  bad.  Young  men  may  stand  it  for  a  few 
-young  men  can  siand  almost  anything  for  a  few  years — but 
it  is  a  vicious  principle.  Give  the  body  its  dues,  or  the  body  will 
revenge  itself  Still,  to  acquire  the  habit  of  earlj'  rising  is  worth  an 
effotL     I  recommend  it  for  health  and  pleasure  as  well  as  for  profit, 

I  remember  one  glorious  summer  morning  when  I  was  a  boy.  I 
thought,  "  Instead  of  lolling  in  bed  from  five  till  eight,  I  will  have  a 
'spree.'"  I  got  up  soon  after  five,  dressed,  stole  down  stairs  and  out 
along  the  glistening  hedgerows,  full  of  May  bloom  and  twittering 
birds.  I  made  my  way  (it  is  thirty-five  years  ago,  ah  me  I)  down  to 
those  countrj-  roads,  then  flanked  with  fields  and  woods,  now  adorned 
with  crowded  smart  villas,  towards  the  great  square  piece  of  water 
which  formed  the  reservoir  of  the  old  Croydon  Canal.  Brambles, 
willows,  May  trees,  and  wood  roses  drooped  over  its  margin.  There 
were  rushes  and  water-lilies,  haunted  by  blue  dragon-flies  and  early 
bees,  in  abundance.  A  wide  grassy  path  went  all  round  the  lake — it 
was  about  a  mile  round — and  a  forest  of  low  fir  trees  and  tangled 
copses  shut  it  in  from  the  adjacent  meadow-lands.  It  was  a  boy's 
paradise.  There  I  remained  bird's-nesting  till  about  eight  o'clock. 
I  never  smelt  such  fresh  balmy  air ;  the  sun  seemed  to  distil  health 
and  pleasure  into  my  veins.  And  I  thoitghl,  and  have  often  thought 
nnce,  of  the  snoring  thousands  who  might  have  such  an  experience 
this,  and  be  richer  all  their  lives  afterwards  as  I  have  been,  who  yet, 
old  Watts  has  it,— 

Wasie  all  ihcit  days  ami  ilicii  hours  without  number, 
land  who,  if  you  should  attempt  to  rouse  them,  would  probably  only 
R<nclaim,  in  the  words  of  the  same  well-known  poet, — 

You  liave  waked  mt  ion  soon,  X  must  slumber  again  ! 

I  like  to  hear  of  young  men  who  are  out  on  horseback  for  a  ride 

P  before  breakfast,  before  the  family  meal,  instead  of  those  witless  crea- 

I'tures  who  come  lolling  into  the  deserted  breakfast- room  about  eleven 

I  o'clock — ^just  out  of  bed,  and  with  a  cigar  already  in  their  mouth; 


hs.  ^ 


I 


48  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

No  one  knows  how  radiant  and  vigorous  Nature  looks  who  has  not 
cared  to  assist  at  her  early  toilet,  and  seen  her  bathing  herself  in 
crystal  dew,  and  decking  herself  with  opening  blossoms  between  four 
and  six  o'clock  on  a  midsunimer  morning. 

So  much  and  how  much  more  for  the  pleasure-seeket  ?  but  the 
early  rising  worker  ali  the  year  round  is  rewarded  by  an  increase  of 
produce,  an  economy  of  time,  and  an  invigoration  of  mind  and  body. 

Get  up  at  half-past  six  on  a  dark  winter  morning.  It  is  cold,  but 
you  can  turn  on  your  gas  stove,  or  pop  your  round  wheel  of  resined 
firewood  on  the  grate.  It  is  dark,  but  you  light  your  lamp,  settle  your- 
self, wrapped  in  a  good  rug,  in  your  arm-chair,  with  a  book,  or  if  you 
write,  take  your  Field  &  Tuer's  author's  pad,  and  write  away  with  an 
ink  pencil.  Not  a  soul  will  come  near  you  for  two  hours ;  you  will  have 
no  temptation  to  be  going  from  room  to  room,  or  to  be  doing  any- 
thing except  just  what  you  have  settled  to  do  overnight.  You  may 
easily  yield  to  an  extemporised  early  breakfast,  but  I  do  not  advise  it 
Left  to  itself,  the  vigour  of  yoiir  brain  after  sleep,  which  you  have  no 
opportunity  of  frittering  in  any  way,  will  be  quite  enough  to  carry  you 
on  till  about  half-past  eight  ornine  o'clock,  when  you  canbreakfast ;  but 
if  you  must  be  set  going,  there  is  your  Etna  close  by,and  you  can  warm 
yourself  up  a  cup  of  tea  left  in  the  pot  on  the  hob  overnight.  Apropos 
of  this  early  cup  of  tea,  if  you  have  never  tiied  it,  your  model  early 
morning  cup  will  be  produced  thus.  Overnight  pour  out  half  a  cup 
of  the  strongest  tea,  fill  up  with  milk,  and  add  sugar ;  cover  with  a 
saucer,  and  place  on  the  hob  first  to  simmer,  and  then  as  the  fire 
goes  out  to  cool.  When  you  rise,  warm  it  up  in  the  Etna,  and  you 
will  find  a  mixture,  owing  to  the  long  and  complete  amalgamation  of 
ingredients,  something  between  lea  and  chocolate  in  taste,  far  more 
nutritive  than  tea,  less  clogging  than  chocolate,  and  more  stimu- 
lating than  coffee.  But  if  you  begin  this  you  will  get  to  depend  upon 
it,  .ind  my  advice  is,  except  upon  perfectly  awful  mornings,  do  with- 
out it  Also  do  without  fire  wlicn  you  can  ;  wrapping  up  is  ten  times 
better  for  the  morale  of  the  body,  as  well  as  for  the  vigour  of  the  mind. 

Morning  literary  work  is  usually  characterised  by  freshness,  con- 
tinuity, grasp,  and  vigour  ;  night-work  by  fever,  excitement,  and  less 
condensation.  This  I  believe  to  be  the  rule  ;  and  with  exceptions, 
in  speaking  thus  generally,  it  is  of  course  impossible  to  deal. 

Of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  that  for  all  head  workers,  especially 
literary  men,  the  following  rules  will  be  found  golden  :  — 

To  bed  before  twelve. 

To  work  before  seven. 

As  little  liquid  as  possible,  and  no  smoking  before  breakfast 

H.    R.    HAWEIS. 


I 


I 


LE  BONHOMME  CORNEILLE. 

THE  Marquis  de  Dangeau  wrote,  in  his  journal  for  the  isl  of 
October,  1684:  "  Aujourd'hui  est  mort  le  bonhomme 
Comeille."  Tlie  illustrious  dramatist  was  an  old  man,  ^r  he  had 
been  bora  in  1606.  He  was  a  good  old  fellow  in  his  ■  ay,  beinj; 
alwap  an  honest  and  upright  man,  though  the  appellation  "  le  bon- 
homme "  was  less  frequently  given  to  him  than  to  La  Fonta  .ie. 

Had  it  been  as  much  the  fashion  fifty  years  ago  as  now  to  "'ooour 
great  men  by  anniversaries,  in  the  year  1836  a  more  gracious  homage 
might  have  been  paid  to  the  author  of  Lr  Cid.  At  Cliriatmastime 
in  that  year  this  play  burst  upon  Paris.  As  a  bombshell  carries  with 
it  destmctioD,  the  Cid  gave  sudden  and  unexpected  delight  to  all 
who  saw  it.  It  is  the  first  of  French  tragedies  that  has  left  a  mark ; 
no  earlier  tragedy  is  now  generally  rememberea.  Corneille  woke  up 
to  find  himself  famous.  It  appears  that,  though  he  was  by  no  means 
a  novice,  he  was  as  much  astonished  as  anyone  at  the  great  success 
of  his  play.  The  Court  liked  it,  and  the  town  hked  it.  It  was  at 
once  translated  into  many  languages.  In  France  people  learnt  pas- 
sages of  it  by  heart,  and  for  a  while  there  was  a  popular  saying, 
"  CcU  est  beau  comme  le  Cid."  If  the  good  folk  in  Paris  had  only 
bethought  themselves  in  1836  of  celebrating  the  bi. centenary  of  the 
appearance  of  the  Cid  the  event  would  have  sounded  happier  than  of 
now  celebrating  the  author's  death.  But  fashion  rules  much  in  this 
world.  It  has  not  yet  become  fashionable  to  recollect  the  dale  of  a 
great  man's  great  work — fifty  years  ago  it  had  not  become  fashionable 
to  have  centenaries  at  all ;  so  that  now,  all  olhcr  excuses  failing,  we 
must  seize  upon  the  bi-cenlenary  of  Comeille's  death  as  a  date  upon 
which  to  honour  him.  Let  us  hope  that  on  the  6th  of  June,  1906, 
ihe  ter-ceotenary  of  his  birlh,  a  more  joyful  note  may  be  sung. 

We  have  said  that  Pierre  Corneille  was  a  good  old  fellow  in  his 
■ay,  but  it  was  his  misfortune  that  his  way  was  not  more  like  that  of 
other  men.  He  was  very  poor  during  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years  of 
his  life.  He  walked  out  one  day  with  a  friend,  and  went  into  a  shop 
to  have  his  shoe  mended.  During  the  operation  he  sat  down  upon  a 
pluik,  his  friend  sitting  beside  him.     After  the  cobbler  had  finished 

VOL  CCLVlll.      NO.  l849'  E 


/ 


The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

his  job  Corneille  took  from  his  purse  three  bits  of  money  to  pay  for 
bis  shoe,  and  when  the  two  gentlemen  got  home  Comeille's  friend 
offered  him  his  'purse,  but  he  declined  all  assistance.  Corneille  was 
of  a  proud  and  independent  nature.  He  is  reported  to  have  said 
of  himself,  "  Je  suis  saofll  de  gloire,  mais  affame  d'argent."  He  has 
been  accused  of  avarice — unjustly,  we  ihink — because  he  tried  lo  get 
as  much  money  as  he  could  for  his  plays.  If  a  man  wants  money  he 
will  try  lo  obtain  that  which  he  think  sshould  belong  lo  him.  .\nd 
if  he  wants  it  badly,  his  high  notions  of  dignity — if  it  be  only  mock 
dignity — will  go  lo  the  wall.  No  fine  gentleman  nowadays  would 
think  it  beneath  him  to  take  ;^ioo  from  a  publisher  or  from  a 
theatrical  manager  after  it  bad  been  fairly  earned.  Some  ask  for 
their  ;^ioo  before  it  has  been  earned.  Two  hundred  years  ago  a 
poet  was  supposed  to  be  paid  with  honour  and  glory,  but,  unfor- 
tunately for  himself,  Corneille  wanted  more  solid  acknowledgment. 
And  two  hundred  years  ago  the  rights  of  authorship  were  not  so  well 
understood  as  now.  In  France,  as  in  England,  very  few  men  could 
have  lived  by  their  pen  alone.  It  is  true  that  the  dramatists  were 
among  the  most  fortunate,  but  many  years  had  elapsed  since 
Comeille's  plays  had  been  popular  at  the  theatre.  In  1670  Molifere, 
as  theatrical  manager,  had  given  hini  2,000  francs  for  a  piece.  This 
was  considered  a  large  sum,  and  it  may  be  doubted  if  Moliere's  com- 
pany ever  got  back  their  money.  The  play  was  TiU  el  Bireniee,  and 
it  was  played  alternately  with  Le  Bourgeois  Genlilhomme.  We  may 
judge  which  of  the  tivo  plays  we  should  like  lo  see  best.  Coraeitle 
had  to  make  the  most  of  his  2,000  francs,  for  his  pension,  supposed 
to  be  paid  lo  him  every  year  from  the  Civil  List,  was  always  delayed. 
The  year  was  made  to  have  fifteen  months  !  Sometimes  the  pension 
was  not  paid  at  all.  So  that  poor  Corneille  was  hard  pressed  for 
money  in  the  latter  years  of  bis  life,  from  1672  to  16S4,  while  his  years 
of  greatest  triumph  had  been  from  1636  to  1642.  And  he  had  small 
resources  except  what  had  come  to  him  from  writing.  His  two  sons 
went  into  the  array,  and  he  had  to  provide  for  them  at  a  time  when 
bis  payments  from  the  theatre  were  diminishing.  There  is  no  evi- 
dence which  should  make  us  tbink  he  was  avaricious  or  greedy  for 
money. 

In  his  manner  Corneille  was  apt  to  be  awkward  and  ungainly.  A 
contemporary  says  that  when  he  first  saw  him  he  took  him  for  a 
tradesman  at  Rouen.  Rouen  was  his  birthplace,  and  there  be  lived 
until  his  avocations  compelled  him,  against  his  will,  to  live  in  ParisL 
Like  La  Fontaine,  be  made  a  poor  figure  in  society.  He  did  not 
talk  well.     He  was  not  good  company,  and  his  friends  were  bound 


* 


Le  Bonkomme  Ccrneiile.  5  1 

lo  confew  thai  he  was  rather  a  bore.  'Ihose  -wbo  knew  liirn  well 
enough  would  hint  to  him  his  defects,  at  which  he  would  smile,  and 
ay,  "1  am  none  the  less  Plena  Corneille."  Bui  Ms  [jhvsiognoraj*, 
»hen  observed,  was  Tar  from  commonplace.  His  nephew,  r'omcnelie, 
avs  of  hini  ;  "  His  face  was  pleasant  enough  ;  a  large  nose,  a  good 
mouth,  his  expression  lively,  and  his  features  strongly  marked  and  fit 
lo  be  transmitted  to  posterity  in  a  medal  or  in  a  bust,"  Corneille 
begins  a  letter  to  Pellisson  with  the  following  verses,  describing 
himself : — 

En  maiiere  d'amour  je  suU  foil  iiicgnl. 

Je  recti)  asECi  bieo,  je  Ic  fais  auci  mal  : 

J'ni  ■■  plume  feconile  et  la  bouehe  sliTilc, 

Bon  ealsiil  an  thtitrc  et  fori  mauvius  eavillc  : 


Que  (|Dand  jc  mc  produis  pnr  la  bouehe  d'aulcui. 


I 


'This  is  a  charming  little  bit  of  autobiography.    And  in  the 
ktter,  after  the  verses,  the  old  poet  says,  "  My  poetry  left  me  at  the 
same  time  as  my  teeth." 

All  this  he  writes,  laughing  in  his  sleeve.  But  often  enough  he 
was  melancholy  and  depressed.  Again  we  quote  from  Fontenelle  : 
"  Corneille  Wiis  of  a  melancholy  temperament.  He  required  stronger 
emotions  to  make  him  hopeful  and  happy  than  to  make  him  mournful 
or  despondent.  His  manner  was  brusque,  and  sometimes  nide  in 
appearance,  hut  at  bottom  he  was  very  easy  to  live  with,  and  he  was 
affectionate  and  full  of  friendliness."  When  he  heard  of  large  sums 
of  money  being  given  to  other  men  for  their  plays,  for  pieces  that 
the  world  liked  perhaps  better  than  his  own,  he  got  unhappy,  for  he 
felt  that  his  glory  was  departing  from  him.  Need  we  go  back  two 
hundred  years  to  find  instances  of  men  who  have  become  unhappy 
ftom  similar  causes  ?  There  are  many  such  in  London  and  in  Paris 
*t  this  moment.  Early  in  his  career,  before  the  days  of  the  Cuf,  he 
proud  of  his  calling.  He  gloried  in  being  one  of  the  dramatic 
tiUhoTs  of  his  time.     He  says  : — 

Le  ih^trc  est  un  fief  donl  I;B  rentes  sont  bonnei. 
And  also : — 

Mon  travut  suns  appiii  monle  sur  le  tht^ilre, 

Chicun  en  libtiti  I'y  liUmc  ou  ['idoliilre. 

Then  he  had  the  ball  at  his  feet,  and  all  the  world  was  before  him. 
He  had  just  made  his  name,  and  was  honoured  by  Richelieu — being 
appointed  one  of  his  five  paid  authors,  But  minister  and  poet  did  not 
like  each  other.  The  autocrat  was  in  something  of  the  same  position 
towards  his  inferior  as  is  the  big  boy  towards  the  little  boy  who  gets 


^ 


i 


The  Genlleman's  Magazine. 

above  him  at  school.  The  big  boy  wanted  to  thrash  the  little  1 
and  the  little  boy  wouldn't  have  it ;  but  at  last  he  had  to  suffer  for 
his  precociousness.  The  big  boy  summoned  other  little  boys  to  his 
assistance,  and  made  them  administer  chastisement  to  the  offender. 
This  was  the  examination  of  the  Cidhy  the  Academy. 

"  En  vain,  contre  Ic  Ci'i/un  ministie  se  ligue, 
Toul  Paris  poui  Chimine  a.  les  yeux  de  RcMlrigue  ; 
L'Academie  en  corps  a  beau  le  censurer, 
Le  public  r^volti  s'obsline  i,  radmirer." 

Comeille  was  a  voluminous  writer.  He  wrote  nearly  as  many 
plays  as  Shakespeare,  but  his  later  ones  are  not  equal  to  those  of  his 
best  days.  And  he  wrote  a  translation  in  verse  of  the  Imitatiom 
Christ!.  This  was  a  pecuniary  success.  The  book  was  bought  and 
eagerly  read,  though  now  it  is  rarely  taken  down  from  the  shelf!  But 
his  prose,  unlike  Racine's,  which  charms  by  its  grace,  is  insignificant 
And,  unlike  Racine,  his  speech  when  he  was  received  into  the  French 
Academy  was  dull,  and  disappointed  everybody.  An  Academical 
reception  is  one  of  the  occasions  in  which  Frenchmen  hawe  always 
expected  that  the  recipient  of  honour  should  distinguish  himself. 
But  it  was  not  in  Comeille's  power  to  please  his  audience  by  making 
a  speech.  We  need  not  be  too  heavy  upon  him  because  his  glory 
was  not  universal  As  he  said  of  himself,  he  was  none  the  less 
Pierre  Corneille.  Readers  have  generally  extolled  Corneille  too 
highly,  or  have  not  given  him  his  due  praise.  This  is  partly  from  the 
fact  that  after  his  great  success  he  wrote  much  that  was  unworthy  of 
his  former  self ;  and  partly,  we  believe  at  least,  that  even  in  his  best 
plays  he  is  too  spasmodic.  His  fine  lines  come  out  too  much  by 
starts,  amidst  much  that  is  uninteresting.  'I'he  famous  "Qu'il 
mourQt"  {Horcue,  Act  III,,  sc  6)  is  very  grand,  and  the  next  line, 
though  not  English  in  sentiment,  is  fine.  But  the  four  succeeding 
lines  are  washy,  and  take  away  from  the  dignity  of  what  has  Just 
gone  before.  Instinctively  Corneille  was  a  dramatist,  and  had  it  not 
beenforthelawsoftheunities  which  bound  him  down  to  conventional 
and  unwise  rules,  he  would  in  all  probability  have  risen  higher  in  the 
world's  esteem.  He  was  alio  a  poet,  having  the  gift  of  poetical  expres- 
sion more  at  his  command  than  the  larger  measure  of  composition  in 
prose.  His  lines  are  often  sweet  and  very  stirring,  for  he  was  moved 
towards  his  subject  with  a  true  feeling  of  poetic  chivalry.  None  of  his 
lines  is  more  quoted  than  one  in  which  he  proudly  spoke  of  himself : — 
Je  ne  dois  qu'i  moi  seul  loulc  ma  renommfe. 

HENRV  M,  TROLLOPE. 


In 


THE    TUSCAN  BERANGER. 

0  man  since  him  who  first  sung  of  the  other  world  in  3  tongue 
pTe\-iously  despised  in  this,  has  exercised  so  powerful  an 
influence  on  the  Italian  language  as  themoderu  satirist  of  the  Tuscan 
hills.  AVTiat  Dante  effected  for  the  spoken  vernacular  of  his  own  day, 
raising  it  to  be  the  model  of  classical  diction,  Giuseppe  Giusti  did  for 
the  rural  idiom  of  his  native  mountains,  rendering  it  the  ideal  standard 
of  speech,  and  this  too  at  the  very  time  when  the  national  aspirations 
for  political  unity  made  some  such  common  standard  a  necessity  for 
Italy. 

Born  of  a  family  of  provincial  gentry,  in  the  little  town  of  Mon- 
summano,  perched  high  above  the  green  amphitheatre  of  the  Val  di 
Nievole,  it  was  his  favourite  recreation  from  boyhood  to  wander  on 
foot  among  the  encircling  Apennines,  and  there  he  gathered  from  the 
lips  of  the  peasantry,  those  poignant  touches  of  wit  and  pathos,  keen- 
whetted  as  by  the  sharp  atr  of  the  uplands,  with  which  he  has  enriched 
modem  Italian.  Like  the  medieval  craftsman  who  elaborated  from 
the  homeliest  types  of  nature  the  exquisite  ornamentation  of  his 
foliated  shafts,  Giusti  has  wrought  into  his  polished  lines,  with  con- 
summate effect,  the  shrewd  proverbs  interchanged  in  fence  and  foil  of 
rustic  wit  by  the  hardy  mountaineers  of  Pistoia,  and  rude  shepherds  of 
the  Maremma.  So  entirely  indeed  is  his  vocabulary  drawn  from  the 
dialect  of  his  rural  fellow-countrymen,  that  while  it  is  regarded  as  the 
purest  ideal  of  Italian  Attic,  it  has  been  found  necessary  to  publish  a 
specially  annotated  edition  of  his  poems  to  render  them  intelligible  to 
Don -Tuscan  readers. 

The  present  prevailing  fashion  in  Italian  literature  tends  towards 
an  exa^eration  of  Giusti's  peculiarities  of  style,  and  the  reaction  led 
by  him  against  the  [)edantry  of  pse  11  do- classical  ism  threatens  to  carry 
public  taste  into  another  extreme,  that  of  giving  Uterary  currency  to 
all  the  familiar  colloquialisms  of  Florentine  street  slang.  The  idiom 
of  the  Mercato  Nuovo  may  be  a  very  quaint  and  forcible  vehicle  for 
popular  wit  and  eloquence,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  quite  incapable  of 
giving  utterance  to  all  the  ideas  of  a  higher  range  of  culture. 

The  name  of  Bdranger,  borrowed  by  his  coui\Uvnveti  for  theii 


54 


The  Qentlemmis  Alagazine. 


favourite  lyrist,  refers  in  reality  to  but  one  aspect  of  his  chaiacter, 
thai  of  a  poet  of  the  people.  The  sunny  singer  of  the  Bohereiian  life  ■ 
of  Paris  has  no  chorJ  on  his  joyous  lyre  that  vibrates  to  those  gulfs 
of  human  nature,  whence  the  Italian  satirist  draws  his  deeper  pathos — 
his  sterner  moral.  In  the  Tuscan  character,  through  all  classes  and 
degrees,  a  keen  and  caustic  sense  of  humour  is  associated  with  a  pro- 
found sensibility  to  melancholy  impressions.  This  dual  nature,  in 
which  the  sources  of  laughter  and  tears  seem  placed  close  together, 
was  reproduced  in  Giusti  in  its  most  intensified  form,  and  he  repeat- 
edly analyses  its  twofold  aspect  in  his  writings.  Thus  in  the  lines  to 
Gino  Capponi  he  describes  himself  as  expressing 

This  seeming  mirth,  which  is  but  giief  belied. 

CQucslo  cbe  par  sorriso  ed  e  dolore.) 

while  to  Girolamo  Tommasi  he  writes  in  the  same  strain, 


Bui  ah  !  a  iangh  that  echoes  not  within 
I'or  like  ihc  starving  mountebank  am  I, 
Who  gnawed  by  warn  to  please  the  crowd  n 
With  gibe  and  grin. 


it  try 


It  is  this  tragic  sense  of  the  incongruities  of  life  that  gives  its  trenchant 
incisiveness  to  Giusti's  verse,  sharpened  like  a  two-edged  sword  with 
the  double  keenness  of  ridicule  and  wrath  ;  the  vehicle,  now  of 
denunciation,  tram  pet- tongued  as  the  blast  of  an  accusing  angel,  now 
of  pungent  raillery  levelled  at  injustice  or  abuse  with  the  seemingly 
unconscious  pleasantry  of  Piilcinella.  Half  harlequin,  half  Mephis- 
topheles,  he  launches  jests  or  sneers  indifferently,  and  is  either  grim 
or  jocose,  as  the  humour  takes  him,  but  ever  with  such  unfailing 
mastery  of  his  weapons  that  neither  sneer  nor  jest  misses  its  mark. 

No  kindred  spirit  to  B^rangcr,  with  the  fresh  bubble  and  sparkle 
of  French  vivacity  in  his  effervescing  verse,  have  we  in  this  scathed 
and  scathing  moralist,  whose  airiest  lines  suggest  such  deeper 
meanings  as  though  the  fixed  and  frowning  eye  of  the  genius  of 
Tragedy  were  gazing  at  us  through  the  disguise  of  the  hollow  comic 
mask.  Rather  among  a  people  resembling  the  Tuscans  in  then 
shrewd  sense  and  keenly  penetrating  humour  will  English  readers 
seek  a  parallel  to  the  Tuscan  poet,  and  in  Giuseppe  Giusti's  general 
turn  of  mind  and  habit  of  thought  find  a  curious  far-away  kinship  to 
those  of  Robert  Burns,  Giusti,  like  Bums,  wrote  in  a  rustic  popular 
idiom,  though  with  a  polish  of  style  that  made  it  classical ;  like 
Burns,  though  not  from  necessity  but  choice,  he  hved  mucli  with  the 
people,  and  was  the  interpreter  of  their  feelings  ;  like  Burns  he  con- 
temned and  scorned  the  fiimsy  shams  of  society,  and  recognised  with 
the  same  intensity  the  common  stamp  of  universal  humanity  which 


The  Tuscan  Bdranger.  55 

they  ignore  Both  natures  were,  perhaps,  original]y  compounded  of 
the  same  metal,  but  moulded  and  fashioned  by  circumstances  and 
surroundings  to  uses  and  capabilities  as  different  as  are  those  of  a 
highly  leinpered  Italian  rapier  from  those  of  a  stout  and  serviceable 
Scottish  dirk. 

The  active  part  of  Giusti's  life  was  coincident  with  that  incipient 
phase  of  the  Italian  revolution  when  an  ever-growing  sense  of  ex- 
""     'ation  in  men's  minds,  a  feeling  of  bitter  wTong  and  burning 
imiliation,  vas  undermining  the  structure  of  foreign  domination  as 
Wcly  and  silently  as  the  gradual  operations  of  nature  saji  the  founda- 
tions of  a  cnimbhng  ruia     All  the  vital  forces  of  the  country  were 
engaged  in  preparing  the  national  renovation  ;  all  its  intellectual  and 
moral  strength  were  bent  to  the  same  purpose;  andart  and  literature 
were  either  pressed  into  the  service  of  patriotism  or  neglected  altogether. 
Thus,  Giusti,  bom  a  poet,  was  developed  into  a  political  satirist  by 
the  conditions  of  the  society  in  which  he  moved,  and  concentrated 
its  seething  passions  into  that  scries  of  epigrams  which  were  not  the 
least  among  the  myriad  influences  all  working  to  the  same  result  of 
ntional  liberation.     He  belonged  to  that  unfortunate  generation  of 
ilians'  who  sowed  in  blood  and  tears  the  harvest  which   iheir 
:endants  have  since  reaped  in  gladness  ;  and  who,  by  a  series  of 
iftive  insurrections  and  conspiracies,  drew  down  on  their  country 
imd  themselves  all  the  miseries  of  repression.    The  poet  saw  the 
machinery  of  mediieval  statecraft  in  full  operation  around  him— the 
tcafTold  and  the  dungeon  the  familiar  implements  of  oppression — 
official  spy  and  paid  informer  the  convenient  tools  of  t)ranny  ; 
ile  and   proscription   the  wages  of  patriotic  aspiration — and  his 
burned  within  him,  and  wrath  armed  his  pen  with  that  con- 
Urated  energy  of  diction,  which  made  his  epigrams  resemble  not 
'iquiba,  but  thunderbolts. 

He  was  not,  however,  a  mere  political  lampooner  but  a  social 
ntirist  as  well,  who  has  held  up  to  opjirobrium  the  most  charac- 
teristic vices  of  his  age  and  country  in  a  series  of  personifications 
which  resemble  Hogarth's  caricatures  in  their  \'igour  and  fidebty. 
A  galley  of  odious  tj-pes,  all  more  or  less  products  of  political  pro- 
made  to  pass  before  us  like  the  slides  of  a  magic  lantern, 
llevealed  in  their  native  hideousness  by  the  focussed  light  of  his  con- 
centrated power  of  epithet.  Thus  the  vile  baigain  between  money 
and  birth  is  the  theme  of  "La  Scritta"  ("The  Contract ")  which 
describes  the  nuptials  of  a  worthless  and  impoverished  patrician  with 
1  usurer's  daughter ;  the  vulgar  ambition  of  the  rich  tradesman,  that 
«f  "  La  Vesrizione  "  ("  The  Investiture,")  in  which  B^cero,  the  ex- 


jfas. 

'!'       tmns 


Btio 


Tlie  Gentlemmt's  Magazine. 

grocer,  is  decorated  with  the  insignia  and  title  of  "  Cavaliere."  The 
base  arts  of  a  career  in  which  conscience,  honour,  and  self-respect 
are  sacrificed  to  worldly  advancement,  ate  flagellated  in  the  history 
of  "  GiugiUino ; "  the  contemptible  figure  of  the  political  weather-cock 
is  pilloried  in  the  "  Brindisi  di  (jirella;"  fashionable  frivolity  and 
aristocratic  innnity  are  satirised  in  "  II  Ballo  "  and  "  II  Giovinetto ; " 
while  the  demoralising  effects  of  the  Government  lottery  on  the  rural 
classes  arc  portrayed  in  the  "Apologia  del  l^tto"  and  "II  Sonilegio." 
So  universally  recognised  were  the  types  he  has  thus  depicted,  that 
the  names  affixed  to  them  have  passed  into  the  language  as  con- 
tumelious epithets  to  stigmatise  similar  characters.  Personal  satire, 
however,  he  held  in  the  greatest  abhorrence,  and  nothing  so  roused  his 
ndignation  as  the  attempts  made  to  identify  his  typical  abstractions 
with  definite  individuals. 

Giusti's  genius  was  somewhat  late  in  development,  and  his  early 
years  gave  no  particular  promise  of  ability.  Bom  in  1805,  he  was 
sent  at  seventeen,  after  a  somewhat  desultory  preliminary  education, 
to  the  University  of  Pisa,  then  rather  a  school  of  revolutionary  prin- 
ciples and  juvenile  dissipation,  than  of  learning  or  morals.  The 
youthful  poet  graduated  much  more  brilliantly  in  the  former  than  in 
the  latter  course  of  education,  and  his  father  was  so  disgusted  with 
his  conduct  that  he  recalled  him  from  the  University  at  the  end  of 
three  years,  and  kept  him  at  home  for  an  equal  lapse  of  time.  In 
1832  he  returned  to  Pisa,  having  in  the  interval  begun  to  try  his 
prentice-hond  at  verse-making,  and  after  eighteen  months  more  of 
the  old  student  life  of  idleness  and  folly,  took  his  degree  in  Juris- 
prudence in  June  1834,  having  devoted  fifteen  days  to  reading  for 
his  examination.  That  it  did  not  require  a  very  profound  course  of 
preparation  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  one  of  the  students, 
about  the  same  time,  enlivened  the  dulness  of  his  legal  studies  by 
versifying  great  part  of  ihe  Canon  Law,  and  sent  up  at  his  examination, 
on  the  theme  "  De  Pallio,"  a  paper  in  rhyming  couplets,  for  which 
the  professors,  quite  unconscious  of  the  poetical  nature  of  the  com- 
position, gave  him  most  favourable  marks.  This  University  life,  with 
its  friendships  and  follies,  its  political  enthusiasms,  and  reckless 
defiance  of  discipline  and  order,  had  a  lasting  influence  on  Giusti's 
inind  and  character ;  and  lo  "  The  Memories  of  Pisa,"  he  consecrated 
the  poem  which  he  himself  preferred  among  all  his  productions,  and 
in  which  he  recalls  with  undisguised  exultation,  that  he  was  ever 
found  in  the  ranks  of  the  most  illustrious  scapegraces. 

Having  taken  his  degree,  he  established  himself  in  Florence 
under  pretence  of  practising  as  a  lawyer ;  but  continued  the  same 


I 


The  Tuscan  Beranger.  57 

KKind  of  amusement  allernalJng  with  desultory  reading ;  and  his 
subsequent  life  was  passed  between  the  Tuscan  capital  and  the 
parental  roof  in  Montecalini.  In  1S35  he  wrote  the  verses  which  first 
ouscd  him  to  be  known  as  a  political  satirist,  under  the  form  of  a 
mock  lament  for  the  death  of  the  Emperor  Francis  I.  of  Austria.  In 
[he  autumn  of  the  same  year,  he  suffered  the  most  bitter  sorrow  of 
hii  life,  caused  by  the  faithlessness  of  a  lady  for  whom  he  felt  His 
(ret  and  only  serious  attachment.  To  her  was  addressed  the 
aquisite love  poem,  'AH'  Arnica Lontana,'  in  a  brief  absence  at  the 
leaside  during  which  the  poet  was  superseded  in  her  fickle  affections. 
He  went  through  months  of  despairing  grief,  and  was  so  far  incon- 
Kilable,  thai  lie  over  and  over  declares  that  he  was  never  again 
capable  of  the  same  depth  of  feeling,  and  that  any  subsequent  wound 
to  his  heart  was  in  comparison  but  a  mere  graze. 

He  was  next  to  experience  all  the  terrors  of  physical  suffering, 
for  a  long  and  painful  malady  of  the  digestive  organs  attacked  him 
in  1843,  in  consequence  of  a  series  of  nervous  shocks  acting  power- 
fiiUy  on  his  sensitive  fibre.  The  first  was  the  conflagration  of  his 
writing-table  under  his  eyes,  owing  to  the  burning  down  of  a  candle 
incautiously  left  lighting  while  he  slept,  an  accident  which  cost  him 
the  results  of  years  of  labour  in  notes  and  memoranda  ;  the  second  a 
protracted  attendance  on  the  death-bed  of  an  uncle  to  whom  he  was 
much  attached  ;  and  the  third  an  encounter  in  the  streets  of  Florence 
with  an  infuriated  cat,  which  flew  at  him  unprovoked,  and  attacked 
him  with  teeth  and  claws.  The  fear  of  hydrophobia  induced  by  this 
singular  mischance  so  preyed  on  his  mind  as  to  cause  a  total  dis- 
arrangement of  the  stomach  or  liver,  which  produced  not  only  acute 
pain  of  body,  but  also  total  apathy  of  mind,  and  incapacity  for 
inlellectual  exertion.  His  letters  at  this  period  give  a  sad  picture  of 
his  state,  and  in  one  of  them  he  replies  to  the  would-be  consolatory 
reSection  of  a  friend,  that  suffering  is  always  the  lot  of  genius,  by 
saying  that  "  when  under  the  pincers,  one  would  bid  adieu  to  the 
btain  of  Galileo." 

Travelling  was  tried  as  a  remedy,  and  in  1844,  he  took  a  trip  to 
Rome  and  Naples  in  company  with  his  mother,  renewing  old  and 
contracting  new  friendships  on  the  way,  and  among  other  notabili- 
ties, meeting  on  intimate  terms  the  brothers  Poerio.  The  return 
journey  was  signalised  by  a  pleasant  little  incident.  At  a  village 
hotel  at  Sant'  Agata,  between  Capua  and  Gaeta,  the  company,  dis- 
covering in  the  course  of  conversation  that  our  travellers  were  from 
Pescia,  began  to  cross-examine  them  about  "  the  famous  poet 
Giusti,"  and  the  truth  was  finally  revealed  by  the  mother's  embar- 


rassed  silence,  and  conscious  glance  at  her  son,  when  asked 
subject  of  discourse  were  handsome. 

The  dislraclions  of  travel  procured  Giusli  a  short  respite  from 
sulTering,  but  in  the  following  autumn  he  had  so  severe  a  relapse 
that  he  believed  his  deatli  imminent,  and  wrote  a  paper  containing 
his  testamentary  dispositions  in  regard  to  his  works,  as  well  as  a 
skeleton  autobiographj',  to  furnish  a  groundwork  for  the  history'  of  his 
life  by  one  of  his  friends.  He  however  recovered,  and  in  1845  was 
able,  with  the  assistance  of  his  friend  Mayer,  to  edit  the  first  edition 
of  his  poems  for  the  press ;  urged  to  undertake  the  task  by  the  pub- 
lication of  a  pirated  edition  at  Lugano,  in  which  they  appeared 
mutilated  and  distorted. 

Perhaps  the  most  agreeable  phase  of  his  life  was  that  which 
followed,  during  which  the  friendship  of  Maozoni  and  Grossi  opened 
up  to  him  a  new  range  of  sympathies  and  affections.  It  began  by 
the  happy  accident  of  his  friend  Giorgini  having  persuaded  him  to 
accompany  him  in  a  trip  to  Spezia,  where  the  Marchesa  d'Azeglio 
and  Vittorina  Manzoni  (afterwards  the  wife  of  Giorgini)  were  taking 
the  baths.  These  ladies  being  about  to  return  home  the  following 
day,  Giusti  and  Giorgini,  starling  in  a  little  carriage  to  escort  them 
as  far  as  Genoa,  finally  accompanied  them  all  the  way  back  to  Milan, 
and  Giusli  during  a  month  spent  fhere  under  Manzoni's  roof,  won 
all  hearts  by  his  graces  of  mind  and  manner.  This  episode  occurred 
in  the  autumn  of  1845,  and  the  correspondence  which  follows  shows 
the  close  and  lender  friendship  which  bound  him  for  the  remainder 
of  his  life  to  Grossi  and  Manzoni,  as  well  as  to  d'Azeglio,  and  to 
Gino  Capponi,  in  whose  house  he  always  slayed  when  in  Florence. 
These  men  were  linked  together  by  the  noble  aim  they  had  in  cora- 
mcn  in  all  their  labours,  the  political  and  moral  regeneration  of 
their  country. 

Manzoni's  letters  to  Giusli  breathe,  like  everything  that  came 
from  his  pen,  the  most  exquisite  and  lovable  soul  that  ever 
accompanied  so  high  an  order  of  genius;  a  soul  whose  intellectual 
and  moral  attributes  were  not,  as  too  often  happens,  in  direct 
antagonism,  but  in  harmonious  combination,  the  one  forming  the 
perfect  complement  of  the  other.  He  winds  up  one  such  letter  of 
playful  tenderness  as  only  he  could  have  written,  with  the  touching 
request,  "  and  you  my  dear  and  good  Geppino,  make  baste  to  love 
me,  for  I  am  old,  and  there  is  no  time  to  lose  about  it."  In  another 
he  addresses  a  grave  though  affectionate  rebuke  to  Giusti,  for  having, 
as  was  reported,  allowed  himself  to  be  led  away  into  ridicule  of 
religion,  and  persona!  satire ;  from  both  which  accusations  the  poet 


The  Tuican  B^anger.  59 

friicE  in  all  humility  to  exculpate  himself;  meeting  the  second  with 
1  point-blank  denial,  except  in  the  case  of  public  and  historical 
peisonages,  and  excusing  himself  from  the  first  on  ihe  plea  of 
iudvericnce  and  want  of  reflection.  This  trifling  incident  shows 
Sow  the  influence  of  a  character  like  Manzoni's  may  keep  up  the 
irhole  moral  standard  of  a  nation.  The  Lombard  novelist,  who 
dfvoted  ten  years'  labour  to  rewriting  his  iramortal  work,  in  order  to 
isumilate  its  language  to  the  purer  Tuscan,  frequently  applied  to 
Giusti,  the  great  master  of  that  idiom,  for  his  advice  and  assistance  ; 
and  many  of  the  letters  of  the  latter  are  dissertations  on  the  meaning 
of  popular  phrases  and,  turns  of  expression. 

It  may  be  imagined  how  the  revolutionary  movement  of  1S48 
iras  hailed  by  all  these  votaries  of  Italian  liberty.     Giusti  raised  a 
company  in  his  native  place,  which  formed  part  of  the  heroic  band  of 
Tuscan    volunteers,    slain  at  Curtatone   and    Montanara ;    and  re- 
gretted only  that  the  state  of  his  health  did  not  admit  of  his  sharing 
the  fatigues  and  glory  of  llie  campaign.     He  took  his  place,  however, 
in  the  ranks  of  the  NationcJ  Guard,  undergoing  drill  and  exercises, 
and  canying  his  musket  as  a  private,  until  he  was  made  a  major  at 
»^  end  of  a  few  months.     Under  the  new  constitution  of  Tuscany, 
Bik  was  returned  as  deputy  to  the  Asscmbl}',  and  took  part  in  its 
HPebates ;  maintaining  as  hrm  an  attitude  of  opposition  to  the  extremes 
'  -of  liberal  as  he  formerly  had  to  those  of  despotic  governments.     The 
fall  of  the   Ridolfi   ministry  under    the    repealed    attacks  of    the 
minority  of  the  Chamber  elicited  his  witty  sonnet  on  "  Majorities," 
beginning,  "  I ptu  tiraiio  i  maio"  and  directed  against  the  apathetic 
attitude  of  the  more  numerous  party. 

Giusti  did  not  long  survive  the  public  misfortunes  following  close 
on  the  brief  dream  of  national  emancipation  ;  his  health  had  been 
lining  for  some  lime,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1849  he  was  attacked 
Ijth  a  severe  miliary  fever,  from  which  he  recovered  indeed,  but 
^iith  the  fatal  germs  of  tubercular  consumption  in  his  system.  To 
the  last  he  continued  his  literary  labours,  nnd  his  sick  room  in  the 
Palazzo  Capponi  was  lined  with  books,  and  the  bed,  from  which  he 
was  to  rise  no  more,  strewn  with  papers  and  memoranda.  The 
disease  made  rapid  progress,  and  death  came  unexpectedly  in  the 
end.  On  March  31,  1850,  in  his  forty-first  year,  he  was  suffocated 
by  the  bursting  of  a  blood-vessel,  and  died  before  the  aid  of  science 
Mit  of  religion  could  reach  him.  He  lies  buried  in  the  Church  of  San 
m'ato,  on  the  cypress-studded  height  overlooking  Florence,  and 
e  inscription  on  his  monument  records  that,  from  the  graces  of  the 
femg  idiom  of  his  countrj-,  he  created  a  form  of  poetry  never  before 


The  GmtUmatCs  Magasine. 

attempted,  and  used  it  for  the  castigation  of  vice  without  detracting 
from  the  beUef  in  virtue. 

Giusti's  life  and  character  are  illustrated  by  a  mass  of  letters, 
which  are  among  the  greatest  models  of  epistolary  style  extant  in 
any  language,  and  are  invariably  recommended  to  students  of 
Italian  as  the  m  plus  ultra  of  vivacity  and  purily  of  diction.  They 
give  the  impression  of  the  most  unstudied  spontaneity,  and  seem  to 
reflect  the  mood  of  the  writer  at  the  moment,  now  witty,  now  tender, 
exalted  with  the  most  lofty  sentiments  of  wisdom  and  morality, 
bitter  with  cynical  irony,  or  tragic  with  the  terrible  eloquence  of 
suffering.  Here  is  a  portion  of  one  addressed  to  the  Marchesa  d' 
Azeglio  in  October  1844  : 

Mv  HEAR  Friend,— I  write  to  you  from  Colle  in  Va!  d'  Elsa,  a  lilile  village 
which,  like  Peticia,  is  by  couriesy  called  a  town.  Tlie  air  of  these  distiicu  U 
good  ;  the  people  in  tliE  main  as  good  as  ihc  air  ;  aad  Poldo  Oriindini,  who  hsi 
received  me  into  his  house,  is  own  brother  10  thai  Checco  Orlandini  whom  you 
saw  at  Ihe  Mayers',  and  who,  in  thai  process  of  mutual  friction  Ihal  we  call 
social  intercourse,  has  kept  his  primitive  stamp,  a  shade  rough  lo  ooe  accustomed 
10  everything  polished,  but  of  sound  metal.  The  touch  of  these  pavements  was 
like  the  pouring  of  fresh  oil  on  a  dying  lamp  10  tny  health  ;  but  alter  eight  or 
ten  days'  breathing  space  I  am  not  going  to  be  such  an  ass  as  (o  be  caught 
l)y  the  bait  of  hope  which  bos  been  dangled  before  me  so  long.  I'he  unlem- 
pered  wind  of  Lt^hom  plays  the  very  mischief  with  a  wrcieh  whose  nerves  ate 
strained  like  the  strings  of  a  violin.  Up  here  the  winds  arrive,  I  might  almost 
say  watered,  and  even  thai  accursed  African  blast,  after  (he  exertion  required 
for  reaching  these  heights,  is  so  changed  thai  It  seems  as  if  it  were  a  native  of 

I  mount  a  pony  every  morning  that  seems  scarcely  bigger  ihan  a  pigeon,  and 
which,  being  accustomed  to  carry  the  doctor,  tries  10  turn  down  every  lane  and 
slop  at  every  door,  like  the  tinker's  donkey.  These  peasants,  who  look  no  higher 
than  the  beast's  legs,  call  out  to  me  from  all  sides,  "  Oh  Doctor,  is  that  you  ?' 
Indeed  a  few  days  ago  a  woman  brought  her  child  out  to  ine  tu  the  road  lo  be 
physicked,  and  it  was  no  easy  matter  lo  persuade  her  that  I  had  nothing  of  llie 
doctor  but  the  mount.  From  the  very  liisl  days  the  animal  and  I  had  made  a 
pact  of  mutual  forbearance,  and  after  going  live  or  sli  miles  al  a  pace  suited  to  my 
invalid  pulse,  we  return  slraighl  home,  as  pleases  heaven.  The  natives  ot  Colle, 
whose  eyes  are  not  trained  to  a  certain  harmony  between  the  horse  and  rider  (oofy 
think  how  indispensable  on  our  Coscine,  or  your  ramparts),  see  nothing  extraordinoiy 
in  the  discrepancy  between  my  Florentine  surtout  and  the  Maremman  saddle,  but 
unlucky  me  if  I  were  to  stumble  upon  some  summer  visitor  accustomed  to  breathe 
the  unadulterated  air  of  the  capital  I  If  I  ever  wished  10  split  myself  in  two, 
after  the  fashion  of  St.  Anthony,  it  would  be  now,  and  I  would  give  anything  to 
be  able  to  dismount  from  the  saddle  in  spiril,  while  I  remained  there  in  flesh  and 
blood,  lo  see  Ihe  line  figure  I  cut.  Not  being  equol  to  this,  I  sludy  myself  as 
best  I  can  in  my  shadow,  and  sigh  for  the  pencil  of  him  who  drew  the  ngneltet 
to  Don  Quixote. 

Here  is  an  extract  from  another  written  to  a  friend(Luigt  Albert!) 


I 


The  Tuscan  B^ranger.  6i 

in  April  1845,  in  which  he  analyses  his  physical  sufferings,  and,  after 
some  preliminary  description,  goes  on  thus  : 

ttTicn  in  Ixd  it  seems  as  if  llie  lime  lo  get  up  would  never  come  j  when  up, 

cTOj  Iioui  seems  a  thousand  bdore  going  back  to  bed  ;  in   (be  house  I  feel  a 

niuia  to  go  out  1  out  of  doois,  a  passion  10  lush  back  lo  the  houie  ;  when 

iiudiag  I  long  10  sii  down,  when  sitting  to  sluid  up  ;  and  so  in  cieTyihing.    Add 

\<i  ittii,  sow  tbe  mosl  burning  delite  for  life  and  tieallli,  now  a  weary  longing  lo 

hie  done  with  it  once  for  all ;  on  one  side  the  dearest  memories,  the  mo^  loved 

fica,  with  ill  the  follies,  hopes,  and  seductions  of  youth  crowding  on  my  mind  ; 

CO  Ibe  other  the  future,  now  glowing  with  light,  now  gloomy  with  silence  and 

liakoess  ;  now  imaged  as  a  place  of  lesl,  now  as  an  interminable  anJ  unknown 

(ock,  01  again  ai  a  black  and  fathomless  nbyss.     Days  of  calm  that  holii  me  in 

nipense  tike  a  soul  in  Umbo,  anil  in  which  tny  conplainls 

'  Sound  not  as  wild  laments,  but  gentle  sighs  ; ' 
Mil  ihen  ugain  a  spasm  which  has  no  defined  name  or  locality,  which,  without 
heiitg  a  distinct  pain  or  a  recognised  afTecIion,  mimics  and  includes  all  the 
Urtnics  ofa  ho^ital ;  resemblmg  in  this  same  of  those  phrases  in  vogue,  which 
Wf  nothing,  bul  hint  everything.  A  red-hot  pinceis  rending  the  vUils  —  a 
{•imenl  of  flU'carding  machines— a  tti ail-waistcoat  which  cramps  and  racks  me 
from  head  to  fool— are  feeble  comparisons  for  this  class  of  tribulation.  There  are 
sluggard  troubles  which  deli|^t  in  slicking  close  (o  yon  in  bed  ;  there  are  others 
ubich  have  the  noble  ambition  of  keeping  you  company  at  table,  out  walking,  at 
the  tlicalre,  and  even  at  the  Inll  ;  granting  you  a  scrt  of  Aaicas  terpus,  which 
nev«r  releases  your  mind  from  the  wretched  feeling  of  haying  a  prosecution 
hanging  over  you.  Mine  is  one  of  those  maladies  of  vagrant  tendency  which  arc 
ticvct  believed  in,  as  those  other  maladies  which  make  themselves  your  bed- 
fellows arc  liltle  believed  in  unlit  ihey  arrive  at  the  point  of  setting  eight 
cbemists  bard  at  wcrk,  four  doctors  in  agitation,  and  strewing  sand  before  the 

Gtusti's  was,  doubtless,  one  of  those  obscure  maladies  in  which 
mind  and  body  act  and  react  on  one  another  in  a  series  of  mutual 
jars,  and  the  sensitive  organisation  of  genius  had  to  discount  thus  in 
bodily  pain  its  exalted  intellectual  privileges.  In  these  letters  the 
poet's  disposition  and  character  are  seen  under  their  best  aspect,  and 
there  aie  some,  such  as  the  letter  of  adx-ice  to  a  boy  entering  college, 
and  of  consolation  to  a  young  cousin  afflicted  with  lameness,  which, 
for  their  combination  of  practical  wisdom  and  admirable  sentiments, 
deserve  to  be  written  in  letters  of  gold. 

Few  artists  have  left  so  clear  and  minute  an  analysis  of  their 
ctrative  impulses  as  Giusti,  who  had  the  power  of  dissecting  and 
detailing,  like  an  indilTercnt  spectator,  all  tlie  wayward  vagaries  of 
inspiration  in  his  own  mind.  He  describes  how,  in  the  first  frenzy  of 
working  out  an  idea,  he  would  sit  at  his  desk  for  hours,  wTiting,  erasing, 
sketching  out,  recasting,  in  a  fever  of  activity  and  creation  ;  then, 
disgusted  with  the  futility  of  his  attempts  at  expression,  would  fling 
aside  his  papers  in  disgust,  and  abandon  all  mental  exertion  for  a 


63  The  Gentkman's  Magazitte. 

phase  of  wild  gaiety  and  social  distraction.  Then  after  an  interval, 
liis  glance  would  light  accidentally  on  the  notes  he  had  been  at  work 
on,  and  he  would  find  that  the  fancied  failure  contained  all  the  ele- 
ments of  completion,  and  only  required  in  reality  a  little  arrange- 
ment and  reconstruction  to  be  a  presentable  addition  to  his  literary 
offspring.  His  biographer,  Signor  Frassi,  tells  us  that  when  the  first 
idea  of  a  subject  kindled  in  his  brain,  he  began  to  cast  it  into  shape 
whatever  place  or  circumstances  he  might  be  in ;  while  walking  or 
in  society,  listening  to  con\-ersation  or  making  himself  agreeable 
to  a  lady,  however  otherwise  engaged,  the  rhymes  and  verses  went 
on  forming  themselves  in  his  mind.  As  soon  as  it  was  thus  as  it 
were  blocked  out,  he  would  read  the  rough  draft  to  his  friends,  to 
ladies,  servants,  or  any  audience  he  could  get,  judging  of  its  effect 
not  so  much  from  their  words  as  from  the  expression  of  their  faces  or 
some  involuntary  gesture  of  dissent  or  appreciation.  Then  modi- 
fying and  changing  whatever  had  seemed  to  fall  flat  or  be  unintel- 
ligible, he  would  lay  it  by  for  some  time,  until  he  had  forgotten  it, 
and  could  judge  of  it  from  a  fresh  point  of  view,  when  he  would  put 
it  through  another  process  of  reconstruction.  He  was  not  less 
prompt  in  adopting  and  assimilating  the  ideas  of  others  than  in 
taking  corrections  and  suggestions  from  them,  so  that  his  mind, 
always  on  the  alert,  gathered  materials  everywhere. 

The  insight  his  life  gives  into  his  method  of  working  is  an  addi- 
tional instance  of  the  unwearied  patience  of  genius  in  pursuing  its 
ideal;  for  we  fmd  that  these  playful  trifles,  apparently  spontaneous 
and  facile  as  though  written  impromptu,  were  in  reality  the  result  of 
infinite  thought  and  pains.  Each  was  kept  by  him  for  months,  during 
which  it  received,  day  by  day,  the  last  finishing  touches  of  perfection 
from  his  fastidious  taste;  attaining  by  the  substitution,  here  of  a  mure 
concisely  forcible  phrase,  there  of  a  more  felicitous  epithet,  that  con- 
summate degree  of  polish  in  which  it  was  finally  given  to  the  world. 
The  facsimiles  of  his  manuscripts  prefixed  to  the  editions  of  his 
works  are  embroidered  with  erasures  and  correcitons,  in  which  one 
can  see  how  laboriously  the  idea  struggles  into  life. 

It  was  not  through  the  ordinary  channels  of  publicity  that  Ginsti's 
poems  reached  their  readers,  for  the  rigorous  censorship  of  the  press 
made  it  impossible  to  make  use  of  it  for  their  circulation.  It  was  in 
manuscript  form  that  they  left  their  author's  hands ;  then  passed 
eagerly  from  one  to  the  other,  they  were  copied,  recopicd,  multi- 
plied and  reproduced  until  ihey  attained  in  this  primitive  fashion  a 
diffusion  as  great  as  if  they  had  issued  from  the  press  in  several 
editions.     Signor  Carducci,  who  has  written  a  brief  memoir  prefixed 


The   Tuscan  B^ranger,  63 

to  one  edition  of  these  poems,  relates  how  when  a  boy  he  was  dragged 
from  shop  to  shop  in  a  remote  village  to  transcribe  and  recite  them. 
Tlius  the  singuhir  fact  came  to  pass,  that  Giusti  was  a  famous  poet 
before  a  line  of  his  had  been  printed,  and  that  it  was  only  by  the  sur- 
reptitious publication  of  his  wotks  by  others  that  he  was  himself 
cumpelled  to  edit  them  for  the  press. 

The  Kiode  of  action  on  hU  mind  of  the  State  of  society  in  which 
!« lived,  and  the  forcible  impressions  he  received  from  its  abuses, 
ire  vividly  portrayed  in  many  of  his  pieces,  which  are  thus  an  analysis 
jfthe  poet's  mental  processes  from  his  own  point  of  view.  They 
sum  up  in  his  own  concentrated  diction  a  review  of  the  evolution  of 
his  genius,  and  show  how  it  was  bent  or  warped  to  satire  by  bitter, 
ncss  of  spirit  inspired  by  the  circumstances  around  him.  The  jroem 
iddressed  to  Gino  Capponi  is  of  this  introspective  nature,  and  we 
subjoin  some  stanzas  of  it  as  an  example  of  his  graver  style.  The 
metre  he  has  here  chosen  is,  as  he  says  in  a  note,  an  old  one,  which 
notwithstanding  its  great  difficulty  he  desired  Co  restore,  as  the 
additional  line  lends  greater  solemnity  and  impressireness  to  the 
octave  stanza. 


As  one  who  cnid  llle  loncnt's  rUih  dolh  guide 
His  bark,  while  uigi?  currenls  Elem  tlie  w.iy. 
Seems  to  stand  motionless,  while  past  him  glide 
Shores,  hilla,  and  distant  woods  in  shifting  play  ; 
So  dolh  my  mind  amid  the  eddying  tide 

a  iJesliflies  bewildered  altay, 
And  while  iIie  vaiied  scene  dolh  pass  heFurc  it 
Of  unineisal  life,  feels  coming  o'er  il 

DuJi  stupor  thai  QO  uderance  date  easay 
Till  with  the  dizzy  tumult  wearied  quite 
The  secret  forces  of  mj  soul  I  feel, 
And  gaie  and  think,  and  fail  to  grasp  aright 
What  to  mine  eyes  intent  those  sights  reveal. 
Nor  feel  within  me  of  such  verse  Ihc  might 
Al  should  rcspood  lo  that  wUJ  clarion-peal. 
&a  hurried  by  the  slii  and  hum  around  me, 
I  dream  and  rave  and  in  its  whirl  confound  mi', 

Like  the  dead  leaf  ihc  wind  doth  drift  ai 
But  when  from  men  afar  I  mciliiale 
Some  task  of  subtle  fancy  breathing  warm, 
And  in  the  mind's  sweet  toil  would  recreate 
The  hcarl  Ibal  weary  travail  doth  inform, 

ime  imporlunale 
As  thoneh  of  insects  vile  a  bituing  swarm, 

:s  clothed  in  jeers  to  mock  and  Rout  me 
Ijke  speclm  armed  with  scifTs,  all  crowd  atioui  me. 
Till  Ibcy  and  1  in  combat  slrLve  and  sloi 


\ 


M 


64  TJk€  GentUmaiis  Magaane. 


Thns  to  her  iocmd  withdnwn,  the  maiden  (kir 
In  gUd  intoxiaaioii  brief  and  light. 
That  left  bj  dance  and  music  lingeiii^  there 
Nor  sleep  not  weariness  can  pot  to  flight. 
Still  seems  to  hear  the  hashed  and  vacant  air 
Thrill  to  the  festive  damoor  of  delight. 
Till  the  impressions  leA  bj  loring  glances. 
The  lights,  the  whirl,  the  roitex  of  the  dances, 

Change  to  a  troublous  vision  of  the  night 

The  poet  then  goes  on  to  describe  his  mental  questionings  as  in 
moments  when  inspiration  flagged  he  seemed  to  doubt  the  genuine- 
ness of  his  vocation  as  a  satirist,  and  almost  to  loathe  the  darker  view 
it  compelled  him  to  take  of  life. 

Then  o*er  this  sea  whose  perils  thou  dost  brave 
With  sail  so  feeble  and  with  bark  so  slight, 
l>oth  storm-cloud  ever  lower,  and  tempest  rave. 
And  plaints  of  wretches  drowned  the  hearing  smite  ? 
Nor  e*er  doth  laugh  the  sk]r,  or  pause  the  ^*ave  ? 
And  doth  the  sun  in  clouds  aje  \-eil  its  light  ? 
And  in  this  dust  much  burdened  and  much  daring. 
Which  on  the  road  to  heaven  wkh  thee  is  faring. 

Is  naught  but  vice  apparent  to  thy  sight  ? 

And  who  art  thou  with  scourge  so  prompt  to  smite, 
Who  the  harsh  truth  so  harshly  dost  prx>c]aim  ? 
And  stiniicg  praise  to  what  is  fair  and  bright. 
Dost  tune  thy  acrid  verse  to  wrath  and  bbme  ? 
Hast  thou  thy  standard  following  aright. 
Learned  Art's  true  ministry,  and  secret  aim  ? 
And  hast  thou  first  from  thine  own  heart  uprooted 
Vain  pride  and  folly  to  thy  part  unsuited — 

Thou  whose  rebuke  would  others'  feet  reclaim  ? 

Then  stung  with  grief  I  breathe  a  sigh  of  care, 
And  curb  my  vagrant  thoughts  to  musing  slow, 
As  calling  back  the  how,  the  when,  the  where. 
My  brief  life-record  o*er  and  o'er  I  go. 
Ah  !  thus  the  past  retracing  I  cull  there 
'Mid  thousand  thorns  but  one  poor  flower  ablow. 
With  error  wroth— with  error  stained— now  soaring 
With  the  great  few  supernal  heights  exploring — 

Now  sunk  to  raving  with  the  vulgar  low. 

Sad  theme  of  wrath  that  solely  flres  me  still. 
How  is  my  heart  by  thee  opprest  and  tried  ! 
Oh  butterfly,  who  in  glad  flight  at  will 
From  flower  to  flower  along  thy  path  dost  glide. 
And  thou  sad  nightingale,  whose  voice  doth  fill 
With  lovc-soDgs  all  the  woods  at  even-tide, 
Compared  with  your  sweet  tasks  how  sore  doth  fret  me 
The  strife  of  soul  in  which  doth  ever  set  me. 

This  seeming  mirth  which  is  but  grief  belied. 


The   Tuscan  B^rangcf. 


6s 


Iht  straoge  Ju.ilily  of  genius,  by  which  it  seems  to  override  wiih 
Irroisiible  compulsion  the  will  and  choice  of  lis  possessor,  has  seldom 
been  more  lividly  portrayed  than  in  this  elaborate  piece  of  mental 
sdf&section.  Siiuiiar  phases  of  thought  are  analysed,  in  the  peel's 
motf  ordinary  vein  of  grim  humour,  in  the  lines  to  Girolamo 
Tommisi,  though  at  too  grtat  length  for  insertion  here.  One  of 
^ts  common  moods  of  satirical  morality  is  reflected  in  ilie  following 
four  stanzas,  narrating  a  cliaracleristic  incident  and  entitled  "An 
imulanury  Salute."    The  metre  is  one   extensively  used  by  the 

aiiihof,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  render  in  another  language  the  fierce 

biieofGiusti's  verse. 

ILmilir^  FmiJcd,  because,  as  ooce  we  Tareil 
Togclhcr  ihimigh  Ihe  maniac's  drcid  abode, 
Awci]  by  tbe  rltcadtul  specucle  il  shnwcii 
My  head  I  b»red, 
Bui  irhe  would  in  churlish  mode  go  pasi, 
WilhouE  aalulc,  all  who  are  short  of  brain, 
Upon  his  blows  his  bat  he  inighi  tclain 
Nailed  firm  and  lasi. 
My  wont  it  is  to  do  nii^rorlune  grace, 
And  withoul  varnish  of  the  Pliariiec, 
To  trace  ibe  workiim  of  divine  decrtc 
In  misery's  case. 
Befoie  tbe  illustiious  duijce  whom  wait  upon 
Obsequious  greetings  of  the  servile  moss — 
Before  fools  aping  wisdotn's  mien  I  pass 
Conlcmpluoas  on. 
The  interest  of  many  of  Giusti's  political  satires  w. 
ephemeral,  and  it  is  matter  of  regret  that  thi 
time  should  have  led  him  to  expend  so  much  of  his  most  brilliant 
verse  on  subjects  more  or  less  remote  frtm  the  sjropalhies  of 
posterity.  The  piece  in  which,  under  the  title  of  "The  Boot,"  he 
gives  an  allegorical  sketch  of  the  fonuncs  of  his  native  country,  has 
more  of  a  historical  character,  and  we  append  the  first  six  stanzas  as 
■iva  sample  of  his  lighter  vein  of  sarcasm. 

I  am  not  made  of  common  vulgar  leather, 
A  hob-nailed  boot  for  rustic  sole  to  press. 
And  ibough  I  seem  rough-hewn  and  pieced  logelher. 
Who  wrought  me  nas  no  cobbler  ne'enbcless  ; 
With  double  soles  and  uppers  slout  to  aid  me 
Through  wood  and  stream,  fit  for  nil  use  be  made  mc. 

Though  round  me.  down  from  calf  to  bed  dolh  eddy 
The  humid  wave,  I  spoil  not,  nor  defay ; 
Good  at  ihc  chose,  I  with  ibe  spur  am  ready. 
As  many  and  many  an  ass  full  well  can  say  ; 
A  row  ol  ihick-set  stitching  guaiiis  and  hedges 
My  ridgy  middle  seam  and  upper  edges. 
NO,  1849. 


■cessarily 
of  the 


i 


$6  GcHtleman's  MagoBtKe. 

To  draw  me  on  is  no  light  unJertikiag, 

Nor  every  do[t  ind  fool  can  cumpaiis  it, 

Indeed  b  weakly  leg  I  cramp  lo  bteakinc. 

And  fgi  most  limb;  am  but  a  ^d  mliifit  ; 

Nonu  in  good  sooth  is  able  long  to  bear  me, 

And  luiii  and  turn  about  ihey  mosOy  wear  me. 
I  spare  you  heie  the  weatisome  tecilal 

Of  those  wbo  in  de&ire  of  me  have  vied, 

Eut  of  the  few  more  famous  odcs,  a  title 

Will  pick  out  here  and  there,  as  chance  may  guide  ; 

And  tell  bow  up^de  down  and  topside  under, 

They  turned  me,  pmed  from  thief  lo  thief  for  plunder. 

It  iCtJta  inciedible,  but  once  the  notion 
I  look  to  gallop  oif,  I  know  not  how. 
And  coursed  with  loosened  rein  o'er  earth  and  ocean  ; 
Hut  having  overdone  the  pace  I  trow. 
My  balnnce  lost,  by  my  own  mass  o'crweighled, 
I  toppled  o'er,  and  lay  full  length  praslralc<l. 

Tom  by  a  mighty  scrimm^e  Ihcn  I  found  me. 
And  a  vast  human  deluge  supervened. 
Of  tribes  come  from  a  thousand  miles  around  me. 
By  counsel  of  a  priest,  or  the  foul  fiend; 
At  leg  and  tassel  all  made  furious  snatches, 
And  cried  aloud,  "  Good  luck  lo  whoso  catches." 

The  poet  runs  oq  through  twenty-eight  stanzas  in  the  same 
sportive  strain,  ending  by  an  aspiration  for  some  sturtiy  wearer  to 
appropriate  the  tattered  boot,  repairing  its  damages  and  removing 
the  patches  that  disfigure  it.  Thus  the  invariable  moral  of  Kalian 
patriotism  closes  the  satire,  pointing  its  significance  as  a  thinly  veiled 
tirade  against  foreign  domination.  This  piece,  in  common  with 
many  of  his  productions,  illustrates  Giusti's  preference  for  the  most 
familiar  similitudes  to  illustrate  his  meaning,  or,  in  his  own  language, 
donning  "  the  rustic  blouse  to  write  in  instead  of  a  full-dress  coat 
unlike  so  many  others  who  deck  themselves  in  a  suit  of  gold  lace  for 
the  purpose." 

This  hatred  of  all  artificial  disguise  was,  indeed,  the  keynote  of 
his  character,  and  his  writings  are  little  more  than  protests  in  various 
forms  against  ail  phases  of  affectation  and  hypocrisy.  His  constant 
aim  was  that  absolute  artistic  sincerity  which  is  one  of  the  distin- 
guishing marks  of  genius,  for  it  is  only  to  strong  natures  that  complete 
power  of  self-revelation  is  gi\'en,  and  the  disguises  of  feebler  souls 
are  worn,  like  a  pauper's  uniform,  rather  from  poverty  than  from 
choice.  So  in  Greek  sculjjturc,  gods  and  heroes  sland  undraped, 
while  lesser  mortals  wear  the  trappings  and  Irimmings  of  an  inferior 
order  of  being. 


The  Tuscan  Stranger, 


Sociil  no  less  ihaD  political  shams  »e  the  constant  subject  o 
GiusD's  invective,  and  fashionable  follies  are  derided  by  him  in  some 
of  his  most  scourging  satires.  To  this  class  belong  the  stanzas 
wiiKn "  For  a  Singer's  Influenza  "  and  addressed  to  a  popular  tenor, 
1  fomer  college  companion  of  the  poel.  They  have  his  usual! 
condensed  bitterness,  and  begin  as  follows  ; — 

While  thou  doK  wacble,  respieg  by  Ihy  lays, 
In  snise  so  pleaaant,  meed  of  (ante  and  gold. 
Thete  wake  in  one  who  liiteiu,  memotiei  old 
Of  Pisan  days. 
When  he  wilh  Ihee  duel  and  serenade 
Along  the  echoing  siteel  at  eve  would  bawl, 
Dclighiiog  (o  bcr  biilcuny  lo  call 

The  !ovc-iii-k  maid. 
And  bout  of  ear  finc-Eliiing  in  Luncfui  mode 
Did,  by  decree  of  friends,  lo  him  belong, 
And  from  his  youlhrul  thiual  the  facile  song 
MelUI1uou>.  nuv.cd. 
All  fool  1  who  deemed  ihat  fame  and  foiiimc's  favoiii? 
Might  wilh  a  slale  and  diuiy  loine  be  wun, 
And  chose  for  alphabetic  signs  lu  thun 

Crolchels  and  quavers. 
Now  thou,  turned  Midair  in  a.  ni^ihl,  dost  use. 
Borne  on  swift  wheel,  Ihy  rapid  way  lu  cleave, 
And  smil'st  on  him  who  in  the  mud  doth  leave 
His  broken  shoes. 
On  him,  whi>,  smiling  back  in  glad  surprise. 
Feels  ancient  IricndJiip  worm  bis  heajl  again 
For  ihec,  who  on  his  face  dost  not  disdain 


^jThesocial  successes  of  the  singerarelhendelincated  without  much 
•xaggeration,  and  he  is  described  as  entering  a  fashionable  drawing- 
foora,  creating  a  rapturous  sensation  among  its  inmates  which  is 
intensiAed  when  he  condescendingly  consents  to  (lerform. 

I'rayeil  end  implored,  he  yields  wilh  ospecl  iwcct, 
As  one  who  doc;,  bis  suppliants  a  grace. 
Twirli  Lis  inouslache,  pulls  olf  his  gloves  apai:e. 
And  lakes  his  seat. 
The  faded  miss,  hysterically  gay, 
Gargles  Iris  Hen  in  jarring  phrase  polite. 
While  raltling  o'er  the  keys  in  rapid  llight 


And  in  her  ravished  eat  the  hybrid  c 
Of  limp  Adonis  at  her  elbow  dies. 
Who  in  bald  semi-French  doth  impiuvisc 


i 


68  The  Genllemati s  Magazine. 

The  piece  concludes  with  five  vigorous  stanzas  portraying  the  I 
degeneracy  of  taste,  in  an  invocation  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  I 
modern  publia 

For  us,  our  yawns  of  boredom  to  aisuaige. 

Let  thtoal  and  umla  in  motion  be, 

To  Dante  born  again  three  pauli' — lo  thee 

Oh  Thou,  who  for  (he  sheep  dose-shorn  and  nude 
Dosl  give  lo  Januarf  the  breath  of  Spring, 
And  cHp'sl,  to  suit  her  cont,  the  froien  wing 
Of  Boreas  nide, 
Save,  save  the  cullttred  art  of  song,  and  bear 
Our  cry  (sn  pit  and  boxes  loudly  rave) — 
Mercy  upon  a.  windpipe,  Lord,  we  crave 

That  costs  so  dear. 
The  organs  of  the  sltull  that  yield  not  bread 
B«  maimed  and  stunted,  and  their  life  effete 
Upon  the  bronchiie  all  its  vitDl  beat 

And  virtue  shed. 
Boyi,  learning  is  En  vogue,  but  how  insane 
Who  money  to  your  schooling  doth  devote. 
Tis  throat  and  ear  are  wanted— ear  and  throat^ 
Plague  tike  the  brain  ! 

ThatGiusti's  command  of  the  language  of  tenJerness  was  not  less" 
complete  than  his  mastery  of  that  of  satire  is  siifhcienlly  proved  by 
the  lines  addressed  "AH'  Amica  Lontana  "  ("To  my  Love  Afai"),  no 
other  than  the  lady  whose  faithlessness  exercised  so  baneful  an 
influence  over  his  life.  To  this  disappointment,  with  its  permanently 
blighting  influence  on  his  affections,  is  doubtless  to  be  ascribed  the 
absence  of  a  greater  number  of  such  pieces  among  his  works. 

Little  as  there  is  it)  his  writings  to  recall  those  of  Dante,  he 
himself  ascribes  the  development  of  his  poetic  faculty  to  his  early 
and  incessant  study  of  the  father  of  Italian  song.  One  of  his  first 
infantine  tasks  was  the  learning  by  heart  of  the  story  of  Ugolino,  and 
the  last  work  that  occupied  him  at  the  time  of  his  death  was  a  Com- 
mentary on  the  Divina  Commedia.  This  essay,  though  left  in  a 
fragment.uy  state,  ought,  if  carefully  edited  and  arranged,  to  be  of 
considerable  literary  interest. 

■\Ve  cannot  better  sum  up  Giusti's  career  as  a  whole  than  in  the 
sonnet  addressed  by  him  toTotnmaso  Grossi  in  1841,  embodying  the 
epitaph  he  would  have  chosen  for  himself,  to  which,  indeed,  the 
unvarying  consistency  of  his  life  fairly  entitles  him. 

'  A  paul,  half  a  franc. 


The  Tuscan  Biranger.  69 


Behold  me,  Grossi,  aged  thirty-five, 
With  my  wild  oats  at  last  entirely  sown. 
And  on  my  head  these  strands  of  silver  strown. 
To  chasten  the  few  follies  that  survive. 

At  a  less  stormy  age  I  now  arrive. 
Half  prose,  half  poetry— to  thought  now  prone. 
And  now  to  sober  mirth.     In  part  alone 
Twill  pass,  in  part  amid  the  human  hive. 

So  downward,  at  this  pace  habitual  grown, 
Still  humouring  the  crowd  with  jest  and  brag 
Till  death  shall  come  to  still  each  noisy  tone. 

Too  happy  if  the  long  and  weary  fag 
Of  life's  highroad  have  earned  my  grave  a  stone 
With  the  inscription  "  Faithful  to  his  Flag." » 


E.  M.  CLERKE. 


I 


The  translation  of  this  sonnet  has  been  already  published  by  the  writer  in  a 
wlumc entitled  *'The  Flying  Dutchman  and  other  Poems,"  The  other  trans- 
tens  in  the  article  are  now  printed  for  the  first  time. 


Tlie  Gentlemans  Magazine. 


A   VERSATILE  HAWK. 

BESIDES  that  hypothetical  kind  of  variation  in  instincts  called 
"spontaneous,"  there  are  other  common  variations  in  everj-- 
day  habits  due  simply  to  experience  and  tradition  ;  and  by  tradition 
I  mean  the  example  of  parents,  or  other  adults,  imitated  by  the  young. 
The  intelligence  of  a  species  or  of  a  family,  however,  is  seldom  found 
distributed  over  the  whole  range  of  its  actions,  but  more  frequently 
develops  itself  in  one  particular  line,  or  set  of  actions  ;  for  it  is  here, 
as  with  siruclure,  where  one  organ  acquires  the  "  habit  of  varying," 
while  all  other  pans  remain  unchanged.  This,  at  any  rate,  can  be 
said  of  the  Milvago  chimango,  which  in  seeking  food  has  acquired  a 
character  lo  distinguish  it  even  in  a  strikingly  versatile  sub-family. 

Azara  says  of  the  caracara  eagle  :  "  All  methods  of  subsistence 
are  known  to  this  bird  ;  it  pries  into,  understands,  and  takes  advan- 
tage of  everything."  These  words  apply  best  to  the  chimango,  which 
has  probably  the  largest  bill  of  fare  of  any  bird,  and  has  grafted  on 
to  its  own  peculiar  manner  of  life  the  habits  of  twenty  diverse  species. 
By  tumsit  is  a  falcon,  a  vulture,  an  insect-eater,  a  vegetable-eater.  On 
the  same  day  you  will  see  one  bird  in  violent  hawk-like  pursuit  of  its 
living  prey,  with  all  the  instincts  of  rapine  hot  within  it,  and  another 
less  ambitious  individual  engaged  in  laboriously  tearing  at  an  old 
cast-off  shoe,  uttering  mournful  notes  the  while,  but  probably  more 
concerned  at  the  tenacity  of  the  material  than  at  its  indigestibility. 

A  species  so  cosmopolitan  in  its  tastes  might  have  had  a  whole 
volume  to  itself  in  England  ;  being  only  a  poor  foreigner,  it  has  had 
no  more  than  a  few  unfriendly  paragraphs  bestowed  upon  it  For 
it  happens  to  be  a  member  of  that  South  American  sub-family — 
PolyborinEB  by  name— of  which  even  grave  naturalists  have  spoken 
slightingly,  calling  them  vile,  cowardlj',  contemptible  birds ;  and  the 
chimango  is  nearly  least  of  them  all — a  sort  of  poor  relation  and 
hanger-on  of  a  family  already  looked  upon  as  bankrupt  and  disreputable. 
Despite  this  eiil  reputation,  1  do  not  shrink  from  writing  its  biography, 
nor  do  I  overrate  the  importance  of  my  subject ;  for  throughout  an  ex- 
tensive portion  of  South  America  it  is  the  commonest  bird  we  know ; 
and  when  we  consider  how  closely  connected  are  the  lives  of  all  living 


Versatile  Hawl: 

waturei  by  mtans  of  their  interlacing  rdations,  tliat  the  pre- 
doniin.ince  of  any  one  kind,  liow-cver  innocuous,  necessarily  causes 
'fie  nwdificalion,  nr  extinction  even,  of  surroumling  sjiecies,  we  are 
Iwner  able  to  appreciate  the  importance  of  this  despised  fowl  in  the 
naiural  polity.  Add  to  this  its  protean  habits,  and  then,  however 
poor  i.  creature  our  bird  may  seem,  and  deserving  of  strange-sounding 
epithets  from  an  ethical  point  of  view,  I  do  not  know  where  the 
tuimalist  will  find  a  more  interesting  one. 

The  chimango  is  always  to  be  seen  at  the  Zoological  Gardens  ; 
but  as  few  birds  less  interesting  in  appearance  are  to  be  found  in  our 
modem  Noah's  Ark,  the  reader  will  have  little  recollection  of  it.  In 
Kit  and  figure  it  closely  resembles  the  hen-harrier,  and  the  plumage 
is  tmiformly  of  a  light  sandy-brown  colour  ;  the  shanks  are  slender, 
daws  weak,  and  beak  so  slightly  hooked  it  seems  like  the  merest 
apology  of  the  falcon's  tearing  weaimn.  It  has  an  easy  loitering 
flight,  and  when  on  the  wing  docs  not  appear  to  have  an  object  in 
view,  like  the  hawk,  but  wanders  and  prowls  about  here  and  there, 
and  when  it  spies  another  bird  it  flies  after  him  to  see  if  he  has  food 
in  his  eye.  When  one  finds  something  to  eat,  the  others  try  to  deprive 
him  of  it,  pursuing  him  with  great  determination  all  over  the  sky  ;  if 
the  foremost  pursuer  flags,  a  fresh  bird  takes  its  place,  until  the  object 
of  so  much  contention — perhaps  after  all  only  a  bit  of  skin  or  bone— 
is  dropped  to  the  ground,  to  be  instantly  snatched  up  by  some  bird  in 
the  tail  of  the  chase  ;  and  he  in  turn  becomes  the  pursued  of  all  the 
others.  This  continues  till  one  grows  tired  and  leaves  off  watching 
lliem  without  seeing  the  result.  They  are  loquacious  and  sociable,  fre- 
quently congregating  in  loose  companies  of  thirty  or  forty  individuals, 
when  they  spend  several  hours  every  day  in  spirited  exercises,  soaring 
about  like  martins,  performing  endless  evolutions,  and  joining  in 
aerial  mock  battles.  After  that  tliey  all  settle  down,  to  remain  for 
■n  hour  or  so  perched  on  the  topmost  boughs  of  trees  or  other  eleva- 
tions ;  and  at  intervals  one  bird  utters  a  very  long  leisurely  chant, 
followed  by  a  series  of  short  notes,  all  the  other  birds  joining  in 
chorus  and  uttering  short  notes  in  time  with  those  of  their  soloist  or 
precentor.  The  nest  is  built  on  trees  or  rushes  in  swamps,  or  on  the 
ground  amongst  grass  and  thistles.  The  eggs  are  three  or  four  in 
number,  nearly  spherical,  blotched  wnth  deep  red  on  a  white  or  creamy 
ground  ;  sometimes  the  whole  egg  is  marbled  with  red  ;  but  there 
■re  endless  varieties.  It  is  easy  to  find  the  nest,  and  becomes  easier 
when  there  are  young  birds,  for  the  parent  when  out  faraging  invari- 
ably returns  to  her  young  uttering  long  mournful  notes,  so  that  one 
has  only  to  listen  and  mark  the  spot  where  she  alights.     After  visiting 


i 


The  Genilemans  Magasine. 

a  nest,  1  have  always  found  tlic  young  birds  quickly  disappear,  s 
as  the  old  birds  vanish  also,  I  presume  tlie  chimango  has  the  habit  of 
removing  its  young  when  the  nest  lias  been  discovered — a  rare  habit 
with  birds. 

Chimangos  abound  most  in  settled  districts,  but  a  prospect  of 
food  will  quickly  bting  numbers  together  even  in  the  most  solitary 
places.  On  the  desert  pamjias,  where  hunters,  Indian  or  European, 
have  a  great  fancy  for  burning  the  dead  grass,  the  moment  the  smoke 
of  a  distant  fire  is  seen  there  ihe  chimangos  lly  to  follow  the  confla- 
gration. They  are,  at  such  limes,  strangely  animated,  dashing  through 
clouds  of  smoke,  feasting  amongst  the  hot  ashes  on  roasted  cavies, 
and  ether  small  mammals,  or  boldly  pursuing  the  scorched  fugitives 
from  the  flames. 

At  all  limes  in  all  places  the  chimango  is  ever  ready  to  pounce  oo 
the  weak,  the  sickly,  and  the  wounded.  In  other  regions  of  the  globe 
these  doomed  ones  fall  into  the  clutches  of  the  true  bird  of  prey ; 
but  the  salutary  office  of  e«cutioner  is  so  effectually  performed  by 
the  chimango  and  his  congeners  where  these  false  hawks  abound,  that 
the  true  hawks  have  a  much  keener  struggle  to  exist  here.  This 
circumstance  has  possibly  served  to  make  them  swifter  of  wing, 
keener  of  sight,  and  bolder  in  attack  than  elsewhere.  I  have  seen  a 
buzzard,  which  is  not  considered  the  bravest  of  the  hawks,  turn  quick 
as  lightning  on  a  Cayenne  lapwing,  which  was  pursuing  it,  and 
grappling  it  bear  it  down  to  the  ground  and  despatch  it  in  a  moment, 
though  a  hundred  other  lapwings  were  uttering  piercing  screams 
above  it  Vet  this  plover  is  a  large,  powerful,  fierce-tempered  bird, 
and  armed  with  sharp  spurs  on  its  wings.  This  is  but  one  of 
numberless  instances  I  have  witnessed  of  the  extreme  strength  and 
daring  of  our  hawks. 

When  shooting  birds  to  preserve,  I  used  to  keep  an  anxious  eye 
on  the  movements  of  the  chimangos  flying  about,  for  I  have  had  some 
fine  specimens  carried  off  or  mutilated  by  these  omnipresent  robbers. 
One  winter  day  I  came  across  a  fine  'I'snioptera  variegata,  a  pretty 
and  graceful  tyrant-bird,  rather  larger  than  the  common  thrush,  with 
a  chocolate  and  silver-grey  plumage.  It  was  rare  in  that  place,  and- 
anxious  to  secure  it  I  fired  a  very  long  shot,  for  it  was  extremely  shy. 
It  rose  up  high  in  the  air  and  flew  off  apparently  unconcerned.  What, 
then,  was  my  surprise  to  see  a  chimango  start  off  in  pursuit  of  it  I 
Springing  on  to  my  horse,  I  followed,  and  before  going  a  mile  noticed 
ihe  tyrant-bird  beginning  to  show  signs  of  distress.  After  avoiding 
several  blows  aimed  by  the  chimango,  it  Hew  down  and  plunged  into 
a  cardoon  bush.     There   I   captured  it,  and,  when  skinning  it  to 


I'ersalile  Hait'L 


ptKerve,  foimd  that  one  small  shot  had  lodged  in  the  fleshy  portion  of 
lilt  breast  It  was  a  very  slight  wound,  yet  the  chimango  with  its 
TiinnJ  sight  had  noticed  something  wrong  with  the  bird  from  tlie 
raomeni  it  flew  off,  apparently  in  its  usual  free  buoyant  manner, 

Oaanother  occasion  I  was  defrauded  of  a  more  valuable  specimen 

'Iian  the  tyrant -bird.     It  was  on  the  east  coast  of  Patagonia,  when 

One  morning  while   seated  on   an    elevation,  watching    the   waves 

dashing  themselves  on  the  shore,  1  perceived  a  shining  white  object 

'ossing  about  at  some  distance  from  land.     Successive  waves  brought 

't  nearer,  till  at  last  it  was  caught  up  and  flung  far  out  on  to  the 

shingle,  6fty  yards  from  where  1  sat ;  and  instantly,  before  the  cloud 

Of  spray  had  vanished,  a  chimango  dashed  down  upon  it.     1  jumped 

Up  and  ran  down  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  found  my  white  object  to  be 

^fc  penguin,  apparently  frech  killed  by  some  accident  out  at  sea,  and 

^Bb  splendid  plumage  \  but,  alas  !  in  (hat  moment  the  vile  chimango 

^pkul  stripped  oti  and  devoured  the  skin  from  its  head,  so  that  as  a 

Specimen  it  was  hopelessly  ruined. 

As  a  rule,  strong  healthy  birds  despise  the  chimango  ;  they  feed  in 
his  company — his  sudden  appearance  causes  no  alarm,  and  they  do 
not  take  the  trouble  to  persecute  him  ;  but  when  they  have  eggs  or 
young  he  is  not  to  be  trusted.  He  is  not  easily  turned  from  a  nest 
he  has  once  discovered.  I  have  seen  him  carry  off  a  young  tyrant- 
bird  (Milvulus  violentus),  in  the  face  of  such  an  attack  from  the 
parent  birds  that  one  would  have  imagined  not  even  an  eagle  could 
have  weathered  such  a  tem[)est  Curiously  enough,  like  one  of  the 
boldest  of  our  hawks  (Tinnunculus  sparverius),  they  sometimes  attack 
birds  so  much  too  strong  and  big  for  them  that  they  must  know  the 
assault  will  produce  more  annoyance  than  harm.  I  was  once  watch- 
ing a  flock  of  cools  feeding  on  a  grassy  bank,  when  a  passing  chimango 
paused  in  its  flight,  and,  after  hovering  over  them  a  few  moments, 
dashed  down  upon  them  with  such  impetuosity  that  several  birds 
were  thrown  to  the  ground  by  thequick  successive  blows  of  its  wings. 
There  they  lay  on  their  backs,  kicking,  apparently  too  much  terrified 
10  get  up,  while  the  chimango  deliberately  eyed  them  for  some 
"loments,  then  quietly  flew  away,  leaving  them  to  dash  into  the 
"aier  and  cool  their  fright.  Attacks  like  these  arc  possibly  made  in 
■1  sportive  spirit,  for  the  milvago  is  a  playful  bird,  and,  as  with  many 
other  species,  bird  and  mammal,  its  play  always  tukes  the  form  of 
attack. 

Its  inefiicient  weapons  compel  it  to  be  more  timid  than  the  hawk, 
i)ut  there  are  many  exceptions,  and  in  every  locality  individual  birds 
arc  found  distinguished  bj-  their  temerity.   A\raci5V  awj  =.\\e"^V\ttii. tMv 


1 


The  GentiematCs  Magazine. 

say  tliat  his  flock  is  subject  to  the  persecutions  of  ai  least  one  pair 
of  lamb-kilhng  birds.  They  ptowl  about  Uie  fiock,  and  watch  till  a 
small  lamb  is  found  sleeping  at  some  distance  from  its  dam,  then  rush 
upon  it,  and,  clinging  to  its  head,  eat  away  its  nose  and  tongue.  The 
shepherd  is  then  obliged  to  kill  the  lamb ;  bul  I  have  seen  many 
Iambs  that  have  been  permitted  to  survive  the  mutilation,  and  which 
have  grown  to  strong,  healthy  sheep,  though  with  greatly  disligured 
faces.  One  more  instance  I  will  give  of  the  boldness  of  a  bird  of 
which  Azara  says  that  it  might  possibly  have  courage  enough  to  attack 
a  mouse,  though  he  doubts  it.  But  Azara  is  an  authority  only  out- 
side of  the  countries  about  which  he  wrote;  we  read  him  for  the 
charm  of  his  simple,  quaint  stjie  ;  he  is  the  Gilbert  White  of  South 
America.  Close  to  my  house,  when  I  was  a  boy,  a  pair  of  these 
birds  had  their  nest  near  a  narrow  path  leading  through  a  thicket  of 
giant  thistles,  and  every  time  I  traversed  this  path  the  male  bird, 
which,  contrary  to  the  rule  with  birds  of  prey,  is  larger  and  bolder 
than  the  female,  would  rise  high  above  me,  then  dashing  down,  strike  [I 
my  horse  a  violent  blow  on  the  forehead  with  its  wings.  This  action 
it  would  repeat  till  I  was  out  of  the  path.  I  thought  it  very  strange 
the  bird  never  struck  my  liead  ;  but  1  presently  discovered  that  it 
had  an  excellent  reason  for  what  it  did.  The  gauchos  ride  by  pre- 
ference on  horses  never  properly  tamed,  and  one  neighbour  informed 
me  that  he  was  obliged  every  day  to  make  a  circuit  of  half  a  mile 
round  the  thistles,  as  the  horses  he  rode  became  quite  unmanageable 
in  the  path,  they  had  been  so  terrified  with  the  attacks  of  the 
chimango. 

Where  the  intelligence  of  the  bird  appears  to  be  really  at  fault  is 
in  its  habit  of  attacking  a  sore-backed  horse,  tempted  thereto  by  the 
sight  of  a  raw  spot,  and  apparently  not  understanding  that  the  flesh 
it  wishes  to  devour  is  an  inseparable  part  of  the  whole  animal 
Danvin  has  noticed  this  curious  blunder  of  the  bird  ;  and  I  have 
often  seen  a  chafed  saddle-horse  wildly  scouring  the  plain  closely 
pursued  by  a  hungry  chimango  determined  to  dine  on  a  portion  of 
him. 

In  the  hot  season,  when  marshes  and  lagoons  are  drying  up,  tht 
chimango  is  seen  associating  with  ibises  and  other  waders,  standing 
knee-deep  in  the  water,  and  watching  for  tadpoles,  frogs,  and  other 
aquatic  prey.  He  also  wades  after  a  very  different  kind  of  food.  At 
the  bottom  of  pools,  collected  on  claj-ey  soil  after  a  summer  shower, 
an  edible  fungus  grows  of  a  dull  greenish  colour,  and  resembling 
gelatine.  He  has  found  out  that  this  fungus  is  good  for  food,  though 
i  never  saw  any  other  creature  eating  it.      In  cultivated  districts  he 


U'ersaiiie  Hawk. 

iohm&a  plough  in  company  with  the  black-headed  gulls,  mololhti, 
Guiia  cuckoos,  and  tyrant-birds,  and  clumsily  gleans  .-imongst  the 
freih-turned  mould  for  worms  and  larvx.      He  also  attends  the  pigs 
irften  they  are  rooting  on  the  plain  to  share  any  succulent  treasure- 
trove  turned  up  by  their  snouts ;  for  he  is  not  a  bird  that  allows 
-dgnity  to  stand  between  him  and  his  dinner.     In  the  autumn,  on 
«iamp,  sultry  days,  tlie  red  ants,  that  make  small  conical  mounds  on 
the  pampas,  are  everywhere  seen  swarming,  and  rising  high  in  the  air 
they  form  a  little  cloud  or  column,  and  hang  suspended  for  hours 
over  ihc  same  spot.     On  such  days  the  niilvagos  fare  sumjituously 
little  insects,  and  under  eacii  cloud  of  winged  auls  several  of  them 
to  be  aeenin  company  with  a  few  fly-catchers,  or  other  diminutive 
species,  briskly  running  about  to  pick  up  the  falling  manna,  their 
enjoyment  undisturbed  by  any  sense  of  incongruity. 

Before  everything,  however,  the  cliiniango  is  a  vulture,  and  is  to 
lie  found  at  every  solitary  rancho  sharing  with  dogs  and  poultry  the 
«flal  and  waste  meat  thrown  out  on  the  dust-heap  ;  or,  after  the 
flock  has  gone  to  pasture,  tearing  at  the  eyes  and  tongue  of  a  dead 
lamb  in  the  sheepfold.  When  the  hide  has  been  stripped  from  a 
dead  horse  or  cow  on  the  plains,  the  chimango  is  always  first  on  the 
scene.  While  feeding  on  a  carcass  it  incessantly  utters  a  soliloquy  of 
the  most  lamentable  notes,  as  if  protesting  against  the  hard  necessity 
of  having  to  put  up  with  such  carrion  fare  ;  long,  querulous  cties, 
resembling  the  piteous  whines  ofa  shivering  puppy  chained  up  in  a 
bleak  back  yard  and  all  its  wants  neglected,  but  infinitely  more 
doleful  in  character.  The  gauchos  liave  a  saying  couijaring  a  man 
who  grumbles  at  good  fortune  to  tlie  chimango  crying  on  a  carcass  ;  an 
eMremcly  expressive  saying  lo  those  who  have  listened  lo  the  distressful 
waitings  of  the  bird  over  its  meal.  In  winter  a  carcass  attracts  a 
great  concourse  of  the  black-winged  gulls  ;  for  with  the  cold  weather 
■these  vultures  of  the  sea  abandon  their  breeding  places  on  the  Atlantic 
shores  to  wander  in  search  of  food  over  the  vast  inland  pampas. 
The  dead  beast  is  quickly  surrounded  by  a  host  of  them,  and  the 
poor  chimango  crowded  out  ;  one  at  least,  however,  is  usually  to  be 
Been  perched  on  the  carcass  tearing  at  the  flesh,  and  at  intervals 
with  outstretched  neck  and  ruffled-up  plumage  uttering  a  succession 
of  its  strange  wailing  cries,  reminding  one  of  a  public  orator  mounted 
on  a  rostrum  and  addressing  harrowing  appeals  to  a  crowd  of  atten- 
tive listeners.  Wlien  the  carcass  has  finally  been  abandoned  by 
foxes,  armadillos,  gulls,  and  caracaras,  the  chimango  still  clings 
sorrowfully  to  it,  eking  out  a  miserable  existence  by  tearing  at  a 
fringe  of  gristle  and  whetting  his  hungry  beak  on  the  bones. 


;6  Tfu  GeKtltmaris  Magazine. 

Though  an  inordinate  lover  of  carrion,  a  wise^  instinct  has  taught 
it  that  this  aliment  is  unsuited  to  the  tender  stomachs  of  its  fledg- 
lings ;  these  it  feeds  almost  exclusively  on  the  young  of  small  birds. 
In  November,  the  chimangos  are  seen  incessantly  beating  over  the 
cardoon  bushes,  after  the  manner  of  hen-harriers  ;  for  at  this  season 
in  the  cardoons  breeds  the  Cor)'phistera  alaudina.  This  bird,  the 
sole  member  of  its  genus,  and  called  tiru-rim  del  campo  by  the 
natives,  is  excessively  shy  and  mouse-like  in  its  habits,  seldom  show- 
ing itself,  and,  by  means  of  strong  l^;s  and  a  long,  slender,  wedge-like 
body,  is  able  to  glide  swiftly  as  a  snake  through  and  under  the  grass. 
In  summer  one  hears  its  long  melancholy  trilling  call-note  from  a 
cardoon  bush,  but  if  approached  it  drops  to  the  ground  and  vanishes. 
Under  the  densest  part  of  the  cardoon  bush  it  scoops  out  a  little 
circular  hollow  in  the  soil,  and  constructs  over  it  a  dome  of  woven 
grass  and  thorns,  leaving  only  a  very  small  aperture  :  it  lines  the 
floor  with  dry  horse-dung,  and  lays  five  buff-coloured  eggs.  So 
admirably  is  the  nest  concealed  that  I  have  searched  every  day  for 
one  through  a  whole  breeding  season  without  being  rewarded  with  a 
single  find  Yet  they  are  easily  found  by  the  chimango.  In  the 
course  of  a  single  day  I  have  examined  Ave  or  six  broods  of  their 
young,  and,  by  pressing  a  finger  on  their  distended  crops,  made 
them  disgorge  their  food,  and  found  in  every  instance  that  they  had 
been  fed  on  nothing  but  the  young  of  the  teru-reru.  I  was  simply 
amazed  at  this  wholesale  destruction  of  the  young  of  a  species  so 
secret  in  its  nesting  habits ;  for  no  eye,  even  of  a  hawk,  can  pierce 
through  the  leafage  of  a  cardoon  busli,  ending  near  the  surface  in  an 
accumulated  mass  of  the  dead  and  decaying  portions  of  the  plant. 
The  explanation  of  the  chimango's  success  is  to  be  found  in  the 
loquacious  habit  of  the  fledglings  it  preys  on,  a  habit  common  in  the 
young  of  Dendrocolaptine  species.  The  intervals  between  the  visits 
of  the  parent  birds  with  food  they  spead  in  conversing  together  in 
their  high-pitched  tones.  If  a  person  approaches  the  solid  fabric  of 
the  ovenbird,  Fumarius  nifus,  when  there  are  young  in  it,  he  will  hear 
shrill  laughter-like  notes  and  little  choruses  like  those  uttered  by  the 
old  birds,  only  feebler  ;  but  in  the  case  of  this  species,  no  harm  can 
result  from  the  loquacity  of  the  young,  since  the  castle  they  inhabit 
is  impregnable.  Hovering  over  the  cardoons,  the  chimango  listens 
for  the  stridulous  laughter  of  the  fledglings,  and  when  he  hears 
it  the  thorny  covering  is  quickly  pierced  and  the  dome  broken  into. 

Facts  like  this  bring  before  us  with  startling  vividness  the  struggle 
for  existence,  showing  what  great  issues  in  the  life  of  a  species  may 
depend  on  matters  so  trivial,  seeminglvi  that  to  the  uninformed  mind 


ihey  appear  like  the  iiieresi  dust  in  the  balance  whicli  is  not  regarded. 
And  how  tremendous  and  pitiless  is  that  searching  law  of  the  survival 
of  the  fittest  in  its  operations  when  we  see  a  species  like  the  Cory- 
jihistera,  in  the  fashioning  and  perfecting  of  which  nature  seems  to 
have  exhausted  all  her  art,  so  exquisitely  is  it  adapted  in  structure, 
coloration,  and  habits  to  the  one  great  object  of  concealment,  yet 
apparently  doomed  to  destruction  through  this  one  petty  oversight — 
the  irrepressible  garrulity  of  the  fledglings  in  their  nest  I  It  is,  how- 
ever, no  oversight  at  ail ;  since  the  hw  of  natural  selection  is  not 
prophetic  in  its  action,  and  only  preserves  such  variations  as  arc 
beneficial  in  existing  circumstances,  witliout  anlicipating  changes  in 
the  conditions.  The  settlement  of  the  country  has  no  doubt  caused 
a  great  increase  of  chimangos,  and  in  some  Indirect  way  probably 
served  to  quicken  their  intelligence  ;  thus  a  change  in  the  conditions 
wtuch  have  moulded  the  Coryphistera  brings  a  danger  to  it  from  an 
unexpected  quarter.  The  situation  of  the  nest  exposes  it,  one  would 
imagine,  to  attacks  from  snakes  and  small  mammals,  from  bird- 
killing  spiders,  beetles,  and  crickets,  yet  these  subtle  ground  foes  have 
missed  it,  while  the  baby-laughter  of  the  little  ones  in  their  cradle 
has  called  down  an  unlooked-for  destroyer  from  above.  It  might  be 
answered  that  this  imist  be  a  very  numerous  species,  otherwise  the 
milvago  could  not  have  acquired  the  habit  of  finding  the  nests;  that 
when  they  become  rarer,  the  pursuit  will  be  given  over,  after  which 
the  balance  will  readjust  itself.  But  in  numbers  there  is  safety, 
e^ecially  for  a  feeble  hunted  species,  unable  from  its  peculiar  struc- 
lure  to  vary  its  manner  of  life.  "  Rarity,"  observes  Darwin,  "  is  the 
^B       precursor  to  extinction." 

^H  W.    H.    HUDSON. 


I 


JOUFFROY,  THE  INVENTOR  OF 
THE  STEAMBOAT. 


FRANCHE.COMTE  is  a  land  of  mountains  and  forests,  iamoua 
for  the  pastures  on  its  liill-sides,  and  chiefly  rich  in  its  herds  of 
cattle  ;  a  land  almost  half  of  which  is  even  now  heath  and  marsh. 
In  the  middle  of  the  last  century  the  province,  as  a  consequence  of 
its  nature  and  its  history,  was  perhaps  the  most  backward  in  France, 
of  which  it  had  only  become  a  part  under  Louis  XIV.  Old  feudal 
chateaux  still  stood  amid  lands  tilled  by  the  labour  of  serfs,  and 
the  manners  of  an  elder  day  still  lingered  in  the  hamlets.  There 
were  no  special  industries,  save  cheese-making  on  the  farms,  charcoal- 
burning  in  the  forests,  and  clock-making  around  Besanron,  the  chief 
town  ;  indeed,  in  all  enterprise  the  province  seemed  left  ho|>elessly 
behind.  The  great  canal  of  the  Rhone  and  Rhine  was  not  made 
till  after  the  war  of  American  Independence,  when  it  gave  employ- 
ment to  the  soldiers  who  had  come  back ;  while  the  river  Doubs 
was  only  navigable  by  small  boats,  and  at  certain  seasons  of  the 
year.  Yet  it  was  on  this  river  that  Jouffroy  tried  his  first  steamboat, 
and  it  was  from  one  of  the  old  chateaux  of  J'ranche-Comte  that 
there  came  an  invention  which  revolutionised  the  commerce  of  the 
world. 

To  us  the  eighteenth  century  seems  characterised  by  ihc  move- 
ment of  destruction  which  led  up  lo  the  final  outburst  of  the 
Revolution  ;  but  the  century  of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  was  also  that 
of  Priestley  and  I^voisier,  of  Arkwright  and  Watt.  In  fact  it  was 
in  this  century,  as  a  result  of  the  physical  discoveries  of  the  jireced- 
ing,  that  the  great  application  of  science  to  industry  took  place, 
that  man  converted  to  his  use  the  forces  of  the  inorganic  world — 
the  greatest  niatcrial  advance  since  our  nomad  ancestors  made 
subject  allies  of  other  animal  races.  In  its  clTect  on  the  workers, 
indeed,  it  was  perhaps  less  noticeable  than  their  personal  cmancipa^ 
tion,  or  than  the  subsequent  separation  of  the  functions  of  master 
and  workman  ;  but  even  thus  considered,  it  is  difficult  to  overesti- 
mate the  change  effected,  the  facilities  for  combination  and  for  the 
sjiread  of  new  ideas  afforded  by  the  massing  of  the  hands  in  large 


k 


youffroy,  the  Inventor  of  the  Steafiidoai.         79 

:3  and  large  cilies,  ood  by  the  improvement  in  the  means  of 

manicalion.     To  it  we  owe  the  cxtinclioti  of  that  iadustry  of  t!ie 

ige,  where  the  father  taught  his  sons  their  trade,  and  the  family 

d  together  in  the  home.     By  it  great  marts  have  arisen  on  the 

ibores  of  the  Pacific,  and  western  Europe  has  come   face  to  face 

with   the  old  civilisations  of  China  and  Japan  ;  by  it  the  barren 

ralleys  of  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire  have  become  densely  peopled, 

»hi!c  the  life  of  the  city  with  its  aspirations  and  its  dangers  has 

become  more  and  more  attractive.     So  in  our  material  progress  good 

ind  evil  are  now  blended  ;  but  the  race  which  made  war  amenable 

h|o  social  discipline,  so  thai  the  character  of  the  warrior  became  a 

^■toble  type,  can  have  little  difliculty  in  making  [)eaceful  indtistiy  also 

Hnbinit  to  this  discipline  ;  and  then  these  triumphs  of  the  industrial 

^^^nril,  which  now  seem  so  ambiguous,  will  take  their  proper  place  as 

part  of  the  rich  inheritance  of  the  past. 

But  in  all  discoveries  a  long  anterior  preparation  is  needed.  The 
application  of  science  to  practical  life  required  a  previous  elaboration 
of  theory,  which  was  only  completed  after  the  lapse  of  ages.  In 
this  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  took  part :  priests  of  the  Sun 
and  Alcxantlrian  mathematicians,  Christian  monks  and  Arab 
philosophers,  astrologers  and  alchemists.  At  Ictigth  there  came  the 
physical  investigations  of  Galileo  :  Stevin,  Torricelli,  and  Pascal 
discovered  that  the  air  had  weight,  and  Boyle,  the  law  of  its 
elastidty ;  and  then  in  the  fulness  of  time  arose  the  idea  of  steam 
as  a  power  in  industry.  Hero,  in  the  great  days  of  the  school  of 
Alexandria,  had  noted  the  force  of  heated  air ;  but  no  advance  in 
this  direction  was  possible  until  the  seventeenth  century,  Legend, 
however,  has  been  busy  with  the  early  history  of  the  steam-engine. 
In  Germany  there  is  shown  the  idol  of  the  great  god  Perkunas,  in 
^Mrhich,  apparently  by  steam,  astonishing  effects  were  wrought,  to  the 
^BBnor  of  tlie  ^Vcndic  peoples,  that  they  might  know  that  Perkunas 
^pito  god ;  whence  the  invention  has  been  placed  in  the  primeval 
forests  of  the  North.  Again,  according  to  some,  Blasco  de  (jara)' 
crossed  the  harbour  of  Barcelona  in  a  vessel  moved  by  steam,  a 
century  before  the  great  discoveries  in  physics  ;  and  later,  Marion 
Delonnc  and  the  Marquis  of  Worcester  encountered  mad  Salomon 
de  Caus  on  the  threshold  of  his  cell  in  Bicetre,  boasting  that  wiih 
boiling  water  alone  he  could  make  chariots  move  and  weights  rise 
up.  Salomon,  indeed,  is  known  to  have  used  heat  lo  raise  the  water 
b  fountains  ;  but,  unfortunately  for  the  story,  he  seems  not  to  have 
been  in  Bicetre  at  the  liiiie  supposed.  Willi  Worcester's  name  we  at 
I  It&t  emei^c  into  ihe  light,  for  in   his   "  Century   of   Inventions," 


I 


So  The  GentlcmatCs  Magazine. 

published  in  1663,  he  has  left  a  vague  and  ambiguous  account  of  a 
new  method  of  raising  weights,  which  is  generally  thought  to  be  the 
first  proposal  to  use  steam  for  that  purpose.  But  the  first  to  actually 
make  a  machine  worked  by  steam  was  Papin,  a  Huguenot  exile, 
who  in  1685  made  experiments  with  his  condenser  before  the  Royal 
Society.  This  first  attempt  prepared  the  way  for  others  :  Papin's 
condenser  was  followed  by  Savery's  steam-pump,  and  that  again  by 
Newcomen's  ;  and  this  being  given  to  Watt  to  repair,  became  in  the 
hands  of  that  great  inventor  the  double-acting  steam-engine  which 
has  had  so  much  effect  on  modem  industn'. 

There  was,  however,  one  application  of  steam  which  from  the 
time  of  Papin  had  been  tried  in  vain  ;  and  it  was  in  France  that  the 
first  successful  steamboat  was  constructed.  Nor  was  this  fortuitous  : 
internal  navigation  had  always  been  of  more  importance  there  than 
in  England  ;  and  canals  had  existed  in  that  country  more  than  a 
hundred  years  before  the  first  was  constructed  here.  The  most  im- 
portant school  of  the  century,  that  of  the  Encyclopedists,  was  as  far 
as  possible  aiming  at  constniction  rather  than  destruction  ;  and 
while  the  greater  minds  made  scientific  discovery  their  aim,  the 
lesser  found  a  congenial  task  in  applying  science  to  industr)'.  So 
strong  was  this  movement  that  it  was  not  confined  to  the  progressive 
classes:  the  inventor  of  the  steamboat  was  not  an  emancipated 
phiiosophe  like  Vaucanson,  nor  a  revolutionary  manufacturer  like 
Montgolficr,  but  a  young  noble  who  all  his  life  opposed  that  general 
transformation  of  society  in  which,  as  regards  one  particular  move- 
ment* he  took  so  notable  a  part. 

Claude  Frani^ois  Doroth^e,  eldest  son  of  the  Marquis  de  Jouffroy 
d'.Vhbi^ns,  was  bom  in  1 75 1.  The  family  of  Jouffroy  had  once  been 
<»f  great  account  in  Franche-Comte.  and  ore  branch  had  become 
poH&essed  of  iho  lands  of  .\bKins  and  the  old  chateau  there,  built  in 
the  eleventh  centur>'  to  guard  the  road  leading  up  to  the  Jura.  A 
few  miles  off,  at  Quingey,  there  was  a  Dominican  convent,  where  the 
boys  from  the  ch^lteau  went  to  school,  and  the  eldest  early  showed  a 
taste  for  mathematics.  Strange  things  were  coming  to  pass  in  those 
very  years.  Beyond  the  range  of  the  Jura,  which  bounded  the 
southern  horizon,  lay  Switzerland,  and  Geneva,  and  Feraey ;  and 
Paris  was  but  200  miles  away— nay,  the  state  of  the  serfs  in  Franche- 
Comtt?  itself  was  already  kindling  the  generous  anger  of  Voltaire. 
Vet  probably  the  tumults  of  the  world  without  little  troubled  the 
good  Dominicans  of  Quingey  and  their  scholars ;  for  "  while  the 
earth  remaineth,  seedtime  and  harvest  shall  not  cease."  But  when 
such  seed  is  sowing,  who  shall  foretell  the  har%est  ?  In  his  childhood, 


i 


youffroy,  the  Inventor  0/  the  Steamboat. 

however,  Jouffroy  felt  other  influences  besides  the  effete  n 
fettdalism  and  Calholidsm.  At  Quingey  dwelt  an  old  oRicer  named 
D'Auxiron,  who  with  the  help  of  his  friend  M.irsha)  Follenay  had 
invented  a  steamboat,  which,  as  we  shall  see,  had  htlle  success  ;  yet 
through  iheir  eflforts  young  Joufl'roy  was  first  attmcied  to  the  work  of 
his  life.  For  ihe  rest,  he  was  a  studious  boy,  much  given  to  joinery, 
wood-luming,  and  other  mechanical  pursuits. 

Had  he  not  been  noble,  he  might  perhaps  have  been  left  lo 
prepare  himself  thus  for  his  strange  career,  with  such  help  as  his 
IHends  at  Quingey  could  afford ;  but  as  it  was,  he  had  lo  go  through 
a  certain  routine.  At  thirteen  he  became  page  to  Madame  la 
Dauphine,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  old  enough  entered  the  army. 
^Vhal  was  his  course  of  life  when  at  court  we  do  not  know,  though 
we  may  imagine  that  the  boy  had  many  wistful  thoughts  of  his  books 
and  his  carpentry  in  the  old  chateau.  His  career  in  the  army  was 
short  and  unfortunate.  To  one  of  his  temperament,  at  once  practical 
and  independent,  the  duties  of  an  officer  in  time  of  peace,  the  minute 
regulations,  the  drills  and  parades,  which  bore  so  little  relation  lo  the 
iKtual  necessities  of  war,  were  irksome  in  the  extreme  :  his  neglect 
led  to  a  strong  remonstrance  from  his  colonel,  which  was  immediately 
followed  by  a  challenge  from  the  subaltern  ;  and  in  a  few  days 
Jouffroy  was  on  his  way  to  the  lies  Marguerites  under  a  lettre  dt 
lackft,  his  military  life  at  an  end  for  the  time  being.  His  prison 
vas  that  in  which  the  Man  of  the  Iron  Mask  bad  worn  out  his 
mysterious  life,  and  from  which  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  Revolu- 
tion fiery  D'Espremenil  of  the  Parlement  was  lo  come  back  loyal, 
ind  repentant.  Here  Jouffroy  remained  for  two  weary  years;  but 
the  troubles  of  life  depend  on  what  you  bring  as  well  as  on  what 
jou  find.  To  all  strong  natures  it  is  at  least  in  some  small  measure 
■line  that — 

The  mind  U  its  own  place,  and  in  ilsclf 
Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven. 

He  soon  found  employment  well  suited  to  him.  Along  the  shores 
of  the  Mediterranean  were  stationed  the  galleys  lo  which  criminals 
Were  sent,  and  from  which  the  last  of  the  Huguenot  prisoners  had 
been  released  only  a  few  years  before.  These  galleys  attracted  his 
attention,  yet  not  on  account  of  their  terrible  histories  :  they  had 
moved  under  the  sighs  of  the  wretched,  but  always  in  accordance 
with  the  laws  of  mechanics.  Jouffroy  composed  a  work  as  the  result 
of  his  observations,  and  thus  began  his  true  career, 

Set  free  in  1775,  he  went  to  Paris,  then  in  one  of  the  great  crises 
I  of  iti  histoi]'.  Fourteen  centuries  had  passed  sirvcc  'i'iVa.'i  \te,«t 
I       you  cciviii.    so.  184}.  f. 


i 


repudiated  the  new  religion  of  Christ,  and  put  himself  undf 
protection  of  the  immortal  gods,  making  a  last  vain  effort  to  stay  the' 
course  of  human  progress^fourteen  centuries  during  which  Christen- 
dom had  grown  and  flourished,  and  Paris  had  grown  and  flourished 
with  it,  till  it  became  its  very  heart ;  and  now  in  this  same  Paris,  the 
Paris  of  St.  Genevieve,  the  capital  of  the  most  Christian  kings,  and 
the  stronghold  of  the  League,  there  had  arisen  a  spirit  more  danger- 
ous to  Christianity  than  all  the  power  of  the  apostate  emperor.  Nor 
was  the  Church  alone  threatened.  Through  centuries  the  Counts  of 
Paris,  become  kings  of  France,  had  laboured  on,  laying  fief  to  fief 
and  province  lo  province,  till  they  had  transformed  themselves  from 
the  chiefs  of  a  feudal  aristocracy  into  the  most  absolute  of  monaichs, 
and  had  built  up  the  great  France  that  we  know.  And  now  their 
good  city  of  Paris  was  ripening  for  revolt ;  Rousseau  had  succeeded 
Voltaire ;  and  the  attack  on  the  altar  had  been  followed  by  the 
attack  on  the  throne.  The  old  Louis  XV.  had  juat  been  gathered 
to  his  fathers,  and  the  new  reign  was  opening  with  hopes  destined 
never  to  be  realised.  The  American  rebellion  was  inspiring  all 
lovers  of  freedom.  Philosophic  Turgot  was  ready,  like  a  second 
Richelieu,  to  mould  the  institutions  oi  the  old  rigime  into  harmony 
with  the  ideas  of  the  age,  and  thus  effect  the  revolution  from  above, 
if  only  the  young  king  wou!d  support  him  against  the  clamours  of  the 
court ;  and  Paris  was  eagerly  watching  the  outcome  of  the  contest, 
though  none  foresaw  how  terrible  a  penalty  for  his  weakness  Louis 
would  one  day  pay.  But  lo  Jouffroy,  who  was  neither  a  philosopke 
nor  a  pensioner,  and  who  foresaw  as  little  as  anyone  what  the  future 
had  in  store  for  him,  there  were  matters  of  much  more  interest  than 
the  struggles  of  Turgot  The  steam-engine,  with  Watt's  earlier  im- 
provements, had  just  been  introduced  into  France  by  Perier,  which 
lent  great  force  to  proposals  for  moving  ships  by  steam,  and 
Jouflroy's  old  friends  from  Quingey  had  come  to  Paris  to  push  their 
invention. 

The  first  attempt  to  apply  steam  to  navigation  was  made  by  Ihe 
inventor  of  the  first  rudimentary  steam-engine.  Denis  Papin  was 
born  at  Blois  in  1647,  of  a  distinguished  Huguenot  family.  After 
taking  ihe  degree  of  doctor  of  medicine  at  the  Protestant  University 
of  Saumur,  he  settled  in  Paris,  where  by  his  scientific  attainments  he 
gained  the  friendship  of  Leibnitz  and  Hiiyghens.  But  he  soon  found 
that  in  France  there  was  no  career  open  to  a  Protestant ;  for 
although  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  was  still  some  years  distant, 
there  were  already  signs  in  plenty  portending  the  coming  storm. 
Therefore,  just  as  four  years  before  Chardin  had  returned  to  the  East, 


altei 

DM 

es! 


» 


youffroy,  the  InveiUor  of  the  Sieamboat.        83 

in  167s  Papin  betook  himself  to  England.  There  he  invented 
|kis  once-celebrated  digester,  a  machine  for  softening  bones,  and  his 
:,  which  was  the  first  steam-engine  ;  and  he  was  presented 
to  the  Royal  Society  by  Boyle,  whom  he  assisted  in  some  iraponant 
experiments.  He  was  also  invited  to  Venice,  to  found  an  academy  ; 
and  he  was  not  without  honour  in  his  own  country,  for  only  five  years 
after  the  Revocation  he  was  elected  a  corresponding  member  of  the 

id^miedes  Sciences,     In  16S7  he  left  EnglandfoiMjrbur^;,     htn 

ic  of  his  family  had  taken  refuge,  and  in  the  rext  year  Charles  ol 
lesse,  "  the  crowDed  artisan,"  made  him  professor  of  mathematics 
in  the  university  there,  His  position,  however,  was  a  very  unpleasant 
one:  the  other  professors  looked  upon  him  as  an  inteHnper.  and 
intrigued  against  him  at  every  opportunity;  while,  to  add  to  his 
embarrassment,  he  became  involved  in  a  dispute  with  the  rulers  of 
the  Huguenot  Church.  The  causes  of  this  quarrel  are  not  known  ; 
perhaps  his  birth  was  his  only  fault ;  for  he  was  nearly  related  to 
Pajon,  who  had  been  expelled  from  his  chair  at  Sedan  on  account  of 
his  Pelagianism,  and  a  kinsman  of  the  minister  Isaac  Papin,  who  in 
his  exile  had  turned  Catholic  after  reading  Bossuet's  "  Variations  of 
the  Protestant  Churches."  However  that  may  be,  ihe  fact  remains 
that  the  most  eminent  of  the  exiles  for  conscience'  sake  was  expelled 
from  the  French  Church  at  Marburg.  Thus  the  Huguenots,  who  in 
Iheir  days  of  power,  while  the  willing  tools  of  the  Cond^s  and 
tte  Rohans,  had  indeed  been  notorious  for  their  intolerance,  even 
carried  the  same  spirit  into  exile  with  them,  a  spectacle  to  the  nations. 
At  length,  in  1707,  he  determined  to  return  to  England.  He  had 
long  thought  of  applying  his  condenser  to  navigation,  and  he  now  em- 
barked, with  his  wife,  who  was  one  of  the  fugitives,  and  his  family,  on 
board  a  steam-vessel  of  his  own  construction,  to  go  down  the  Weser. 
Having  with  difficulty  reached  the  frontier  of  Hanover,  he  was  stopped 
by  the  bargees,  who  accused  him  of  violating  their  corporate  rights. 
Re  set  ofT  to  appeal  to  a  magistrate,  and  in  his  absence  his  boat  was 
broken  in  pieces  by  the  mob.  He  died  some  years  afterwards  in 
great  misery,  having  made  no  further  attempt  to  construct  a  steam- 
boat But  had  he  done  so  he  must  inevitably  have  failed,  for  naviga- 
tion by  steam,  to  be  really  successful,  required  a  steam-engine  with 
constant  action,  and  this  had  not  yet  been  invented.  In  fact,  experi- 
ments were  naade  from  time  to  time,  notably  by  Jonathan  Hulls  in 
1736,  but  without  success;  and  when  Jouffroy  arrived  in  Paris  in  1775 
the  problem  was  still  unsolved. 

In  1772  D'Auxiron  had  obtained  a  fifteen  years' patent  for  his 
iteamboat,  and  had  formed,  with  FoUenay's  aid,  awm'fs.ii-^  t.o-wQA\^. 


1 


The  Cenilefnan's  Magazine. 


Perier,  who,  although  himself  without  originality,  had  obtained  t 
reputalion  by  introducing  \\'att's  steam-engine  into  France,  reported 
against  the  new  steamboat ;  and  this  so  alanned  the  shareholders 
that  he  had  to  be  taken  into  partnership  in  order  to  satisfy  thera.  But 
the  opposition  of  the  boatmen  and  others  interested  in  the  existing 
means  of  transport  proved  a  more  formidable  obstacle  :  the  same 
passions  which  had  destroyed  Hargreaves'  spinning- jenny  at  Black- 
bum  and  Papin's  steamboat  in  Germany  were  aroused  on  the  Seine; 
and  on  the  eve  of  launching  the  boat-house  was  broken  open,  and 
the  vessel  much  injured.  The  members  ofthe  company  were  furious, 
and  attacked  D'Auxiron  as  the  most  accessible  person,  a  lawsuit  being 
Ihc  consequence.  Moreover,  a  serious  difference  showed  itself  be- 
tween Perier  and  JoulTroy,  who  had  now  been  admitted  lo  the  coun- 
sels of  tile  promoters.  The  former  calculated  that  the  force  to  be 
exerted  by  the  steam-engine  would  be  equal  to  that  exerted  by  a  horse 
in  tgwing  the  same  boat;  while  JoulTroy  insisted  that  it  must  be 
greater,  in  fact  four  limes  as  much,  because  the  point  of  application 
ofthe  force  was  now  in  the  naler.  Perier's  views  prevailed,  and 
Jouffroy,  leaving  Paris  with  a  confidence  soon  strengthened  by  the 
complete  failure  of  his  rival's  experiments,  returned  to  his  father's 
house. 

There  was  a  curious  legend  attached  to  one  of  the  towers  of  the 
chateau.  It  was  related  that  in  days  long  past  a  crusading  seigneur 
of  Abbans,  who  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Moslems,  lay  in 
prison  grieving  for  his  young  wife,  when  a  good  fakir  gave  him  a  ring 
by  means  of  which  he  could  transport  himself  home,  on  condition 
that  he  returned  before  break  of  day.  The  pe.isants  believed  that 
the  tower  was  revisited  by  the  ghostly  crusader,  and  that  those  pass- 
ing by  it  at  midnight,  which  none  ever  did,  saw  il  lighted  iip  and 
heard  the  rattle  of  the  prisoner's  chains.  Now,  soon  after  Jouffroy's 
return,  a  great  fear  fell  on  all  the  neighbourhood;  for  beams  of  light, 
as  if  from  a  furnace,  could  be  seen  issuing  from  the  old  tower,  and 
some  who  lived  near  even  heard  the  clank  of  iron.  But  it  was  no 
crusader,  borne  over  the  seas  by  the  magic  ring  ofthe  fakir:  it  was 
the  making  of  a  new  talisman  for  all  peoples;  it  was  Jouffroy  con- 
structing the  machinery  of  his  first  steamboat.  He  had  turned  his 
back  on  Paris,  with  its  controversies  and  its  intrigues;  he  had  left 
Perier  to  try  what  he  could  do  with  all  the  resources  of  capital, 
machinery,  and  skilful  workmanship  ;  and  he  had  come  back  to  the 
old  chateau,  to  make  a  steamboat  on  his  own  plan,  with  no  help  save 
that  of  a  village  brazier. 

Jouffroy  had  an  aunt  in  a  religious  foundation  at  Baum«-1es- 


I 


yo'ffff'oy,  tite  Invmlor  of  the  Sleamboat,       85 

dames.  At  her  request  he  hail  his  little  vessel,  when  it  was  finished, 
towed  up  ihe  Doubs  to  Monlbdiard,  whence  he  navigated  it  down 
thesticam  to  Besan^on,  so  as  to  pass  her  convent.  The  experiment 
attracted  scarcely  any  atleniion  among  men  of  science,  but  the  nobles 
and  peasants  of  the  province  flocked  lo  the  banks  of  the  river,  to  see 
the  new  sight ;  and  when  the  vessel  was  seen  to  move  without  sail  or 
rower,  the  spectators  thought  the  great  work  accomplished.  One 
alone  fell  that  much  more  was  required  before  steam  could  take  its 
place  as  the  great  means  of  transport,  and  that  one  was  Jouffroy. 
Tbia  first  boat  was  propelled  by  paddles  set  in  motion  by  the 
oscillating  action  of  the  steam-engine  as  it  then  existed  ;  but  he  soon 
saw  that  this  was  very  unsatisfactory.  Duquet  had  some  time  before 
suggested  the  use  of  paddle-wheels  in  navigation,  and  Jouffroy  now 
adopted  this  idea.  But,  as  Benjamin  Franklin  pointed  out  lo  the 
Aiaerican  inventors,  a  steam-engine  acting  continuously  was  needed 
to  move  paddle- wheels.  Watt  had  already  made  a  double-acting  one  ; 
but  it  is  the  principal  title  of  JouRVoy  to  fame  as  an  inventor  that  he 
was  the  first  lo  appreciate  this  difficulty,  and  the  first  to  solve  it  by 
the  invention  of  a  steam-engine  with  constant  action.  Watt  made  the 
same  improvement  independently,  as  it  seems  ;  but  not  until  1786. 

However,  new  difficulties  sprang  up  :  when  the  inventor  was 
found  to  be  himself  dissatisfied,  such  interest  as  the  trial  had  aroused 
diaoged  into  ridicule  ;  and  his  own  resources  were  nearly  at  an  end. 
He  thought  of  turning  his  scientific  abilities  to  account  by  entering 
Ihe  Artillery  or  Engineers  ;  but  the  nobles  of  the  province  raised  a 
great  outcry  at  one  of  their  number  entering  a  branch  of  the  service 
which,  unlike  the  line  regiments,  was  open  to  all  without  distinction 
of  birth.  They  nicknamed  him  '  Jouffroy  la  pompe  ' ;  while  even  his 
o*n  family  turned  against  him,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  give  up  the 
plan.  At  length,  on  D'Auxiron's  death,  Jouffroy  became  a  member 
of  the  company  he  had  formed,  and  thus  obtained  money  to  make  a 
large  steamboat  The  place  chosen  for  the  trial  was  Lyons,  a  city 
famous  in  the  annals  of  industry,  the  staple  of  which  is  linked  with 
the  inventions  of  Vaucanson  and  Jacquard.  Here,  twenty  years 
before,  Bourgeiat  had  set  up  the  first  veterinary  schools  in  France  ; 
and  here  the  sluggish  Saone  afforded  a  safe  course  for  the  new  steam- 
boat. Nor  was  there  at  Lyons  any  lack  of  interest  in  the  matter  : 
children  were  even  named  after  the  inventor ;  and  when  on  the  isth 
of  July,  1 783.  the  large  steamboat  was  launched,  ten  thousand  spec- 
tators crowded  the  quays.  The  dimensions  of  the  vessel  were  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feel  long  by  forty  broad,  and  it  continued  to 
navigate  the  Saone  for  sixteen   months.     At  the  end  of  that  lime  it 


W     86 

■        broke  down  ;  bv 


TAe  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


broke  down  ;  but  only  because  Jouffroy's  poverty  had  compelled  him 
to  have  recourse  to  bad  materials.  This  success  induced  a  financial 
company  to  come  forward  and  offer  support,  on  condition  that  a 
patent  was  obtained ;  and  the  inventor  therefore  applied  to  Calonne 
for  a  thirty  years'  privilege.  The  minister  referred  the  matter  to  the 
Academic  des  Sciences,  which  proved  true  to  the  usual  character  of 
such  bodies.  A  committee  was  appointed,  of  which  Perier,  Jouffroy's 
unsuccessful  rival,  was  the  leading  member ;  and  a  fatal  condition 
was  insisted  on—  a  new  trial  before  the  august  eyes  of  the  Academy 
on  the  Seine;  so  that  Jouffroy,  who  had  already  exhausted  bis 
resources  in  the  experiment  at  Lyons,  had  to  give  up  all  hope  of  a 
patent. 

At  home,  Jouffroy  received  litde  more  encouragement.  His 
younger  brother,  who  held  a  place  at  court,  had  lately  married  one 
of  the  Queen's  maids  of  honour,  Louis  and  Marie  Antoinette  being 
present  at  the  ceremony  ;  but  the  consent  of  the  bride's  family  had 
only  been  given  on  condition  that  the  elder  brother  gave  up  his 
heritage  in  the  Chateau  d'Abbans.  Dependent,  with  his  young  wife, 
whom  he  had  married  while  at  Lyons,  on  his  father's  bounty, 
Jouffroy  could  not  refuse  his  consent ;  and  his  kinsfolk  seem  only  to 
have  been  too  glad  of  an  excuse  to  disinherit  the  reckless  inventor  in 
favour  of  so  much  more  creditable  a  member  of  the  family  as  an 
exempt  of  the  King's  bodyguard.  This  transaction,  which  would 
have  been  scouted  by  the  smallest  squireen  in  England,  may  serve 
to  explain  the  ease  with  which  the  revolutionists  changed  the  laws 
of  inheritance,  and  the  strength  of  the  opposition  to  the  majorat 
under  the  Restoration.  In  the  meantime  Jouffroy  remained  at 
Abbans,  where  he  built  himself  a  house  of  wood,  in  which  he  lived 
with  his  wife,  until  one  day  it  was  burnt  down.  He  continued  bis 
efforts  to  bring  the  steamboat  into  notice,  and  even  nude  advances 
to  Perier,  but  nothing  came  of  them.  He  also  entered  into  a  law- 
suit with  the  unfortunate  shareholders  in  D'Auxiron's  company ;  but 
when  the  judgment  was  given,  Jouffroy  was  an  exile,  and  could  no 
longer  benefit  by  it.  The  proceedings  were  begun  under  the  old 
Monarchy,  which  still  stood,  venerable  with  the  authority  of 
centuries,  and  the  decision  was  given  under  the  Republic,  springing 
into  vigorous  life  amid  the  ruin  of  all  that  had  been  accounted 
greatest  in  old  France. 

The  day  of  the  great  outbreak  had  at  length  come.  The  move- 
ment of  thought  which  had  been  sapping  for  so  long  the  beliefs  on 
which  the  old  regime  rested  had  now  done  its  work,  and  the 
Monarchy,  which  had  seemed   so  imposing,   fell   almost  without 


youffroy,  ihe  luveTiior  of  the  Steamboat.       87 

defence,  and  while  the  real  Republicans  were  still  a  small  minority. 

Where  ihe    right  divine  of  kings  had  reigned  through  the   ages,  the 

ngbts  of  man  were  lo  have  their  one  short  span  of  power,  and,  that 

ending  amid  bloodshed  and  anarchy,  were  to  make  way,  as  we  may 

hope,  for  better  things.     But  for  the  rights  of  man  Jouffroy  cared  not 

a  UJ  :  by  birth  and  education  he  belonged  to  the  old  order,  and  to 

tie  old   order  he  remained  faithful  throughout  his  life.     The  only 

progress  for  which  he  cated  was  that  progress  of  industry  which  the 

cnavulsions  of  Ihe  Revolution  seemed  likely  to  retard.     In  his  life, 

indeed,  there  had  been  many  incidents  which  might  have  disposed 

him  against  the  old  regime :  hindered  rather  than  helped  by   his 

tank,   disinherited,   refused    a    patent   for  his  invention,   he    had 

assuredly  sufficient  private  grounds  of  discontent ;  hut  In  the  stirring 

events  of  the  Revolution  such  personal  feelings  were  forgotten.    The 

conduct  in   the  great  crisis  of  the  leaders  in  science  and  industry 

ibtms  an    instructive  lesson.     The  great  Lavoisier  had  no  personal 

reason  to  complain  of  the  existing  order,  for  he  had  been  admitted 

W  the   Acadi-mie  des  Sciences  when    only   twenty-five,    and    had 

massed   a  fortune  as  a  farmer  of  the  revenue.     Yet  while  he  was 

^p  supporting  the  Mountain  in  Paris,  and  Madame  Lavoisier  represent- 

^■iJBg  Nature  in  atheistic  fetes,  Jacquard,  a  poor  weaver  of  Lyons,  who 

^■^Vss  one  day  to  be  a  notable  inventor,  was  fighting  under  a  Royalist 

^^  general  in  defence  of  a  Girondia  m  unicipality.     And  while  Lavoisier 

held  office  under  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety,  until  a  day  came 

when  the  Republic  had  no  need  of  chemical  experiments,  Coulomb, 

the  electrician,  who  in  the  old  times  had  been  cast  into  prison  for 

making  a  loo  truthful  report,  threw  up  all  his  appointments  on 

the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution.      Monigolfier,  again,  joined  the 

Republicans,  in  spite  of  the  favours  he  had  received  from  the  court, 

while  Jouffroy,  who  had  been  treated  with  continued  neglect,  was 

among   those  who  emigrated.      In   the    old    days  the   nobles  of 

Franche-Comte'  exclaimed  against  one  of  their  number  entering  the 

artiUety,  but  it  was  as  an  officer  of  artillery  that  Jouffroy  fought  in 

Condi's  army  for  the  authority  of  the  crown  and  the  privileges  of 

the  nobility. 

The  attempt  to  suppress  the  Revolution  by  force  failed.  Condi's 
aristocrats  and  Brunswick's  veterans  proved  no  match  for  the  raw 
levies  of  the  Republic  ;  and  the  hiiigrh  were  rolled  back  across  the 
frontier,  to  spend  years  in  dreary  exile.  Such  vantage  has  faith  over 
infideUty.  In  the  West  the  peasants  kept  up  the  fight  longer ;  for 
there  the  fierce  enthusiasm  of  Paris  was  met  by  the  no  less  fierce 
.enthusiasm  of  La  Vendi^e.     Jouffroy  remained  in  exile  until  1801 


i 


I 


The  Genlleman's  Magazine. 

when,  after  ihe  Peace  of  Lun^ville,  he  was  allowed  to  return. 
Daring  his  absence  his  father  had  died,  and  Abbans  had  become  the 
property  of  his  brother's  children,  who  had  stayed  in  France.  Their 
guardian  let  the  old  chateau  to  Jcuffroy,  who  proved  a  very  unde- 
sirable tenant,  since  he  pulled  down  one  of  the  wings,  in  order  to 
obtain  materials  and  fuel  for  new  experiments.  In  fact  he  at  once 
resumed  his  labours  on  the  steamboat,  but  with  no  better  result; 
for  Buonaparte,  thinking  that  any  improvement  in  navigation  would 
in  the  end  be  of  most  advantage  to  England,  as  the  strongest  naval 
power,  refused  to  countenance  any  efforts  in  that  direction.  Though 
thirty  years  of  life  yet  remained  to  Joufiroy,  he  was  to  be  little  more 
than  a  spectator,  while  another  took  up  his  work  and  carried  it  to 
completion. 

In  the  year  1765,  when  the  boy  Jouffroy  had  just  become  a  page 
at  court,  Robert  Fulton  was  born  at  Little  Britain,  Lancaster  County, 
Pennsylvania.  When  three  years  old  he  lost  his  father,  one  of  those 
Irish  Presbyterians  who  emigrated  in  such  numbers  during  the  last 
century,  carrying  with  them  the  .'ame  hatred  of  England  as  the 
Catholic  emigrants  of  to-day.  Brought  up  on  a  small  farm  at  the 
uttermost  bounds  of  civilisation,  his  nurture  and  education  were  of 
the  roughest  ;  yet  lie  soon  showed  very  decided  tastes.  What  spare 
time  the  boy  had  he  spent  in  the  workshops  of  the  mechanics  of 
Little  Britain,  and  his  skill  in  drawing  attracted  even  more  attention ; 
for  many  remembered  how  a  Quaker  lad  had  grown  up  amongst 
them  in  Pennsylvania,  who  was  in  these  very  years  painting  pictures 
for  the  King  in  London.  When  he  grew  older,  his  friends  .sent  him 
to  Philadelphia,  where  be  made  such  progress  that  he  was  soon  able 
to  support  himself  by  portrait-painting,  and  even  to  save  enough  to 
buy  his  mother  a  farm.  This  done,  he  set  off  for  London,  and 
became  the  guest  of  his  counlryiran,  Benjamin  West.  But  in 
London  he  soon  saw  that  he  could  nevtr  become  a  great  artist 
whatever  the  good  people  of  Philadelphia  might  think.  As  an 
ini'entor  he  was  more  successful.  He  went  over  10  Paris  to  bring 
the  torpedo,  which  he  had  invented,  before  the  Directory;  and  while 
there  he  assisted  Joel  Barlow  with  the  first  panorama.  After  some 
years  of  waiting,  as  he  had  got  no  definite  answer  from  the  French 
Goernment  regarding  the  torpedo,  he  turned  his  attention  to  steam 
navigation,  and  constructed  a  steamboat  of  larger  size  than  that  of 
Jouffroy,  but  worked  on  the  same  principle  ;  and  with  this  in  1801 
he  made  a  successful  trial  on  the  Seine,  the  money  being  provided 
by  Livingstone,  the  American  Minister  at  Paris,  who  held  a  patent 
for  steam  navigation  in  the  State  of  New  York.     Fulton's  attempts 


I 

I 

I 


youffroy,  the  Inventor  of  the  Steamboat.       89 

to  interest  the  French,  and  afterwards  the  English,  Government  in 
the  torpedo,  kept  him  in  Europe  for  some  lime  longer,  but  he  at 
length  returned  to  America,  and  in  1807  constructed  a  steamboat, 
which  made  its  first  journey  up  the  Hudson  from  New  York  to 
Albany.  On  the  day  of  the  trial  a  large  crowd  assembled  to  see  the 
expected  failure,  so  many  had  been  the  unsuccessful  attempts  of  the 
same  kind  in  America.  A  few  days  before,  Fulton  had  offered  for 
sale  a  third  of  the  patent,  now  the  joint  property  of  Livingstone  and 
himself,  but  no  one  could  be  found  to  buy.  However,  to  the  surprise 
of  all,  the  success  was  from  the  first  complete.  The  importance  of 
being  able  to  navigate  the  American  rivers  by  steam  had  led  many 
inventors  to  essay  the  same  problem,  and  to  give  it  up  in  despair ; 
and  Fulton,  more  fortunate  than  Jouffroy,  had  several  of  his  rivals  as 
the  witnesses  of  his  triumph.     It  might  be  said — 


The  invention  all  admired,  and  each,  how  he 

To  lie  the  inventor  missed  ;  so  easy  il  seemed 

Once  found,  vhicb  yet  unlouDd  most  would  ha.ve  thought 

Impossible. 


fl 


From  that  day  navigation  by  steam  rapidly  gained  the  ascendant, 
and  was  soon  extended  to  the  sea,  Fulton  himself  constructing  the 
first  vessel  of  war  so  moved.  In  spite  of  the  raftsmen  and  the  whole 
riverside  population,  steam  was  introduced  on  the  Mississippi  in  181 1, 
changing  its  whole  aspect.  The  place  of  the  numberiess  small  craft, 
which  gave  life  to  its  banks  from  St.  Louis  to  New  Orleans,  was 
taken  by  gigantic  steamers,  passing  on  from  town  to  town,  till,  with  a 
new  application  of  the  steam-engine,  there  came  the  railways  to  leave 
the  great  rivers  nearly  silent  and  deserted.  FuUon  died  in  1815. 
His  last  years  were  embittered  by  lawsuits,  but  the  final  decision 
whereby  his  patent  was  annulled  was  not  given  till  after  his  deatii. 

To  whom,  then,  was  the  invention  of  the  steamboat  due  ?  A 
curious  competitor  has  been  found  in  Spain.  In  the  reign  of  Charles  V. 
a  certain  Blasco  de  Garay  is  said  to  have  tried  a  vessel,  moved  by 
steam,  in  the  harbour  of  Barcelona  ;  and  if  this  were  so,  he  mtist 
have  been  the  greatest  of  inventors ;  for,  in  addition  to  anticipating 
the  discoveries  of  Slevin,  Boyle,  and  so  many  other  physicists,  he 
must  have  brought  the  steam-engine  to  a  degree  of  perfection  only 
attained  after  the  continuous  labours  of  Papin,  Savery,  Newcomen, 
Walt,  and  Jouffroy — in  fact  he  must  have  condensed  the  labours 
of  two  centuries  into  a  single  lifetime.  Such  a  story  could  only 
have  obtained  credence  in  an  age  unobservant  of  the  real  course  of 
scientific  discovery ;  in  an  age  like  that  in  which  Pope  could  say — 


Nature  and  Nature's  lawi  lay  hid  in  nifht  i 
God  said,  "  Let  Newton  t>e,"  and  all  was  light. 


i 


The  Gcr.tletnans  Magazine. 

But  those  who  have  ceased  to  think  that  discoveries  come  forth 
complete  from  a  single  brain,  like  Minerva  from  the  head  of  Jove, 
will  put  the  tale  aside  as  an  idle  fiction.  In  fact  the  principal  stages 
in  the  application  of  steam  to  navigation  are  very  clearly  marked : 
first,  Papin  conceived  the  idea  of  using  the  steam-engine  for  that  pur- 
Ijose,  and  tried  to  do  so  ;  then,  Jouffroy  rendered  this  practicable  by 
inventing  a  steam-engine  with  constant  action,  and  successfully 
worked  a  steamboat  for  sixteen  months  ;  finally,  Fulton  brought  the 
steamboat  into  general  use.  Some  other  claimants  have  come  for- 
ward:  in  Scotland,  Miller  and  Symington  constructed  a  vessel  moved 
by  steam,  making  use  of  the  engine  with  constant  action  which  Watt 
had  invented  independently  some  years  after  Jouffroy's  success ;  but 
this  vessel  was  not  completed  until  1791,  and  then  had  no  especial 
success.  In  .\merica  a  claim  has  been  made  on  behalf  of  Fitch,  who 
attempted  to  overcome  the  difficulty  by  availing  himself  of  the  oscil- 
lating movement  of  the  old  pum ping-engine ;  but,  as  Franklin  bad 
pointed  out,  the  steam-engine  was  not  adapted  for  use  in  navigation 
until  its  action  was  made  constant.  This  difficulty  Jouffroy  was  the 
first  to  recognise,  and  the  first  to  remedy. 

There  are  some,  however,  who  insist  that  he  is  the  true  inventor 
who  first  brings  an  invention  into  general  use.  As  Sydney  Smith  puts 
it,  "  That  man  is  not  the  discoverer  of  any  art  who  first  says  the 
thing;  but  he  who  says  it  so  long,  and  so  loud,  and  so  clearly,  that 
he  compels  mankind  to  hear  him  ;"  and  if  this  be  so,  Fulton  has 
indeed  a  strong  claim.  But  to  make  an  invention  generally  accepted 
depends  on  qualities  very  different  from  those  needed  to  conceive 
and  execute  it,  In  our  days  the  former  usually  requires  only  the 
capacity  to  successfully  promote  a  joint-stock  company,  which  scarcely 
entitles  a  man  to  rank  among  great  inventors.  On  the  other  hand, 
several  to  whom  great  improvements  in  industry  are  due  have  been 
notoriously  deficient  in  the  ability  to  force  their  machines  on  the 
public  notice,  as  in  the  cases  of  Vaucanson  and  Jacquard.  In  fact, 
the  suggestion  of  a  new  process,  putting  this  suggestion  into  execu- 
tion, and  bringing  it  into  general  use,  may  each  be  worthy  of  honour ; 
but  it  is  the  second  step,  the  passing  from  theory  to  praaice,  that 
properly  constitutes  the  invention.  We  have,  moreover,  the  conclu- 
sive testimony  of  Fulton  himself  to  the  paramount  claims  of  Jouffroy. 
The  former,  after  his  experiment  on  the  Seine,  became  involved  in  a 
controversy  with  Desbiancs,  a  watchmaker,  who  had  tried  a  steam- 
boat of  his  own,  at  Tr^voux,  with  very  little  success.  In  his  answer 
to  Desbiancs,  Fulton  wrote  '■  "  Let  M.  Desbiancs  reassure  himself 
Is  it  a  question  of  profit,  of  lucre  ?  I  shall  enter  into  no  competition. 


"  of  lite  Steamboat.        g^ 

If  is  not  on  the  rivulets  of  France,  but  on  the  great  rivers  of  my 
country,  that  I  shall  carry  out  my  navigation.  Is  it  a  question  of 
invention  ?  Neither  M.  Desblancs  nor  I  invented  the  steamboat. 
If  that  glory  belongs  lo  anyone,  it  is  to  the  author  of  the  experiments 
of  Lyons,  of  the  experiments  made  in  1783,  on  the  Saone."  Thus 
by  the  testimony  of  his  rival  the  glory  of  the  invention  belongs  to 
jouffroy,  though  its  introduction  on  the  great  rivers  of  his  country 
will  keep  alive  the  memory  of  Robert  Fulton. 

After  the  Restoration  Jouffroy  made  a  last  attempt  to  retrieve  his 
position.  He  succeeded  under  the  patronage  of  the  Comte  d'Artois 
in  forming  a  company  to  run  steamers  on  the  Seine ;  but  a  competing 
Hne  having  been  set  up,  both  were  ruined.  He  struggled  no  more. 
In  the  words  of  Prometheus,  that  true  prototype  of  all  those  who 
have  enriched  human  life  with  arts,  though  he  had  taught  men  how 
to  navigate  the  tall  barks  bounding  o'er  the  waves,  yet  lacked  he  the 
wisdom  10  free  himself  from  his  afflictions.'  Some  years  later,  after 
his  wife's  death,  he  found  himself  obliged  to  enter  the  Invalides, 
where  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  days.  The  story  of  his  death, 
as  told  by  his  grandson,  the  Marquis  Isidore  de  Jouffroy,  is  cha- 
racteristic' Every  week  he  went  to  visit  his  sister,  who  lived  near  the 
Porle  St.-Martin ;  for  he  loved  to  talk  with  her  about  Franche-Comt^, 
his  3routh,  his  family,  his  labours,  and  his  invention.  As  the  distance 
to  the  Invalides  was  very  long  for  the  old  man  to  walk,  his  sister  was 
wont,  at  his  departure,  to  put  into  his  hand  a  httle  money,  so  that  he 
might  drive  home.  One  day  he  walked  all  the  way,  in  order  to  save 
the  money  10  buy  sweetmeats  for  his  grandchildren.  He  reached 
the  Invalides  cold  and  weary,  a  fit  prey  for  the  cholera,  which  was 
then  raging  ;  and  in  a  few  days  he  was  dead.  He  hved  to  see  his 
invention  in  use  throughout  the  world  ;  he  died,  over  eighty  years  of 
I  age,  a  pensioner  in  the  Invalides. 

All  was  ended  now,  Ihe  hope,  and  the  fear,  and  the  sonow. 
All  Ihe  aching  of  hcait,  the  lestlcss  unsatlsRed  longing, 
All  the  dull  deep  piio,  and  contlant  anguish  of  paiieace. 

Eight  years  after  his  death,  which   look  place  in    1833,   the 
l^mie  des  Sciences,  with  tardy  justice,  recognised  him  as  the 

toibSto  fiiijuiii^jiai"  iltupiif  rcUat 
BfOToimr  airrbs  ovH  lx<t  a6-pii!iC  irif 

'  Uoe  Decouverte  eo  Franche- Comte  an  XVIIl-  siecle.  Par  Isidore,  marquis 
kjonftoj  d'Abbans,     Bnan^on.     iSSi. 


92  The  Gentlmiafis  Magazine. 

inventor  of  the  steamboat      His  eldest  son,  Achille  de  Jouffroy, 
became  known  as  an  ardent  Legitimist  and  a  skilful  inventor. 

Thus  sadly  closed  a  life  of  great  promise  but  imperfectly  fulfilled, 
and  one  the  failures  of  which  cannot  be  attributed  to  any  want  of 
character  or  intellect  JoufTroy's  perseverance  was  inexhaustible, 
and  his  courage  was  equal  to  his  perseverance  ;  again  and  again  in 
his  zeal  he  faced  ruin  ;  again  and  again  he  recommenced  the  labours 
that  seemed  so  fruitless.  In  prudence,  indeed,  he  was  by  nature 
deficient,  but  even  prudence  came  to  him  where  his  invention  was 
concerned,  as  is  shown  by  his  willingness  to  be  reconciled  to  Perier, 
if  he  could  thereby  disarm  his  opposition.  In  intellect,  too,  he  was 
far  superior  to  many  of  the  most  successful  inventors,  as  Arkwright 
for  instance.  No,  there  were  other  causes  at  work.  '*  Intellectual 
conditions,  then,  will  not  alone  account  for  a  life  so  promising  to 
science  falling  short  of  its  powers  and  opportunities.  We  can  only  ex- 
plain this  grievous  anomaly  by  the  retrograde  tendencies  which  pre- 
vented this  great  mind  from  frankly  accepting  the  general  movement 
of  his  age."  So  spoke  Auguste  Comte  at  the  grave  of  the  biologist 
Blainville,  and  in  the  same  considerations  we  have  the  real  secret  of 
Jouf}ro>'s  life.  His  social  feelings  were  not  strong  enough  to  break 
through  the  influence  of  his  birth  and  education  ;  and  so,  except  as 
an  inventor,  he  remained  a  stranger  to  the  progressive  spirit  of  his 
time.  Thus  divided  in  his  allegiance,  he  never  attained  that  unity 
of  life  needful  alike  for  success  and  happiness.  But  this,  although 
the  chief,  was  not  the  only  cause  of  failure.  There  is  no  necessary 
connection  between  inventive  ability  and  the  capacity  to  direct  large 
industrial  undertaking  ;  nay,  the  former  will  probably,  as  education 
spreads,  be  found  more  and  more  among  the  workmen  ;  yet  under 
our  present  system,  an  inventor,  if  he  wishes  to  bring  his  invention 
into  use,  has  to  become  a  capitalist,  or  at  least  to  form  a  joint-stock 
company,  though,  like  Jouffroy,  he  may  be  very  unfit  for  such  work. 
But  this  question  is  really  only  a  part  of  a  much  larger  one — that  of 
the  moralisation  of  industry.  The  magic  ring  of  the  fakir,  in  the 
l^end,  was  given  through  pity  ;  but  the  forces  of  nature  neither  love 
nor  hate.  They  are  neither  good  nor  bad,  save  as  they  are  used  ; 
and  on  their  use  it  depends  whether  the  great  advances  of  modern 
industry  are  a  blessing  or  a  curse.  The  power  which  is  wrung  from 
nature  by  roan's  intellect  it  is  for  man  to  employ  in  the  service  of 
love. 

SHAPLAND  HUGH   SWINNV- 


SCIENCE   NOTES. 


TN 


Sir  William  Thomson's  U.s-iversal  Jellv. 
■Science  in  Short  Chapters"  are  reprinted  two  papers  that 


i.  I  wrote  thirteeo  years  ago  on  "  Mathematical  Fictions  " 
"World  Smashing."  They  are  a  protest  against  the  assumptions  of 
Sir  William  Thomson,  who,  in  addressing  popular  audiences  as 
President  of  the  British  Association,  described  the  transcendental 
imaginings  of  ultra-physical  mathematicians  as  demonstrated  physical 
ticts,  thereby  misleading  his  audience,  and  misrepresenting  modern 
science  in  a  manner  calculated  to  bring  it  into  contempt. 

I  now  learn,  from  a  report  published  in  Nalure  of  November  27, 
that  he  has  been  "al  it  again,"  in  a  lecture  delivered  at  the  Academy 
of  Music,  Philadelphia,  on  September  29  last,  under  the  auspices  of 
the  Franklin  Institute.  The  lecture  was  on  the  Wave  theory  of  Light, 
and  I  need  scarcely  add  that,  like  everything  else  that  is  done  by 
Sir  William  Thomson,  it  was  brilliantly  done,  and  therefore  the 
more  mischievous  if  wrong.  He  said  to  his  audience,  "  You  can 
imagine  particles  of  something,  the  thing  whose  motion  constitutes 
light.  This  t/iiitgvit  call  the  luminiferous  ether.  That  is  the  only 
iiibitiincc  we  arc  confident  of  in  dynamics.  One  thing  we  are  sure  of, 
and  that  is  the  reality  and  substanliati'ty  of  the  luminiferous  ether." 
(The  italics  are  mine  ) 

This  is  a  reckless  perversion  of  the  first  principles  of  philosophy 
and  the  accepted  use  of  language.  Everybody  who  understands 
English  knows  perfectly  well  that  only  a  sensible,  tangible  object  can 
be  properly  described  as  a  "  thing  "  having  "  substance."  In  applying 
such  a  description  to  the  luminiferous  ether,  affirming  such  superlative 
confidence  concerning  its  substantial  reality,  and  telling  his  audience 
to  "r^ard  the  existence  of  the  luminiferous  ether  as  a  reality  of 
Kience,"  as  "an  all-pervading  medium,  an  elastic  solid  with  a  great 
degree  of  rigidity,"  Sir  William  Thompson  was  misleading  them  in  a 
manner  tliat  demands  unceremonious  protest  on  the  part  of  all  who 
seriously  respect  the  sanctity  of  scientific  truth. 

This  all -pervading  elastic  rigid  solid,  this  universe  of  "jelly  "in 
which  we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being,  and  through  which  all 
the  heavenly  bodies  travel  (according  to  Sir  William  Thomson  and. 


nd^fl 


r 


94  The  Gentleman's  Magazine, 

others),  has  no  more  actual  or  substantial  reality  than  the  Canesi^n 
vortices  that  preceded  it,  and  were  made  by  similar  efforts  of  mathe- 
matical imagination  to  occupy  its  place  in  space,  and,  like  the  rigid 
jelly  with  its  "cracks"  (recently  communicated  from  the  brain  of  Str 
William  Thomson)  were  patched  and  modified  to  fit  the  astronomical 
phenomena  then  knovra,  and  which,  by  the  aid  of  such  ingenuity, 
they  did  fit  well  enough  to  seri'c  their  temporary  purpose. 

Descartes,  however,  was  more  modest  than  Sir  William  Thom- 
son. He  perceived  that  the  mere  fitting  of  an  hypothesis  to  (acts 
does  not  demonstrate  the  substantia!  reality  of  the  hypothetical 
material  Instead  of  dogmatically  affirming  this,  he  argued  apolo- 
getically for  it  by  saying  thai  "it  can  hardly  be  that  an  hypatiiesis 
which  thus  explains  phenomena  can  be  false ;  to  say  this  would  seem 
to  be  an  imputation  on  the  Deity ;  namely,  the  supposition  that  He 
made  us  so  imperfect  that  a  right  use  of  reason  might  lead  us  to 
deceive  ourselves."  Here  Descartes  does  admit  the  true  character 
of  /lis  dynamical  hypothesis  ;  he  describes  it  as  a  human  invention 
framed  by  human  reason  in  its  efforts  to  solve  some  of  the  mysteries 
of  creation.  Not  so  Sir  William  Thomson  ;  he  exalts  a  mere 
fiction  of  the  imagination  above  al!  the  realities  of  Nature;  by 
describing  it  as  "  the  only  substance  we  are  confident  of."' 

Such  superlative  confidence  is  by  no  means  supported  by  the 
lessons  that  may  be  learned  on  contemplating  the  history  of  science. 
The  leading  characteristic  of  its  progress  has  been  the  casting  away 
of  ultra-material  ethers,  and  all  other  imaginary,  invisible,  intangible, 
unweighable  outside  essences  or  agencies,  supposed  to  act  upon 
matter  otherwise  inert.  We  are  gradually  and  steadily  advancing 
towards  the  conception  of  intrinsically  active  matter,  having  physical 
life,  aiin  to  organic  hfe,  without  inventing  physical  souls  or  im- 
ponderable ethers  or  other  active  essences  to  set  it  a-going. 

The  primitive  savage  imagined  an  ethereal  soul  or  spirit  inhabiting 
each  individual  object.  The  more  recently  imagined  instigators  or 
agents  of  material  activity,  such  as  phlogiston,  caloric,  the  electric, 
the  galvanic,  and  magnetic  fluids,  or "  ethers,"  as  Davy  called  them, 
the  nervous  fluid,  the  vital  fluid,  &c.,  were  but  wider  generalisations 
ofthe  primitive  individual  spiritual  entities.  The  only  extant  residuuin 
of  all  these  physical  superstitions  is  the  luminiferous  ether. 

'  In  the  article  "  Aether,"  in  the  old  Cyclopedia  of  E.  Chambers  (1786),  the 
writer,  after  describing  various  ihcorieB,  says  :  ■'  In  effect,  atlher  being  no  ob}ect 
of  onr  sense,  but  the  mere  work  of  imagination,  introduced  only  for  the  sake  of 
hypothesis,  or  to  solve  some  phenomenB,  red  or  imaeiaaiy ;  authon  tmke  the 
Jibetly  to  moiIify  it  how  ihcy  iilease." 


I 


Science  Notes.  95 

I  HTiat  should  we  now  think  of  the  prospects  of  a  young  aspirant 
ICi  scientific  fame  who  should  put  forth  his  claims  for  distinction  by 
publishing  the  following  :— "  Light  is  a  body  in  a  peculiar  state  of 
eiisience.  Its  particles  are  so  amazingly  minute,  that  they  pass 
unaltered  through  the  pores  of  diaphanous  bodies."  "  Light  enters 
into  the  composition  of  a  number  of  substances."  "  It  has  been 
demonstrated  that  phoi-oxygm  is  light  combined  vHh  oxygen" 
(originaJ  italics).  "  Certain  substances  give  out  their  combined  light 
oa  immeision  into  the  mineral  acids."  "  We  have  supposed  the 
electric  fluid  to  be  condensed  light.  Thus  we  have  another  cogent 
reason  for  supposing  that  the  nervous  spirit  is  light  in  an  ethereal 
gaseous  form."  "  During  living  action  water,  carbonic  acid,  and 
nitrogen  are  liberated  from  the  animal,  and  probably  electric  ether 
and  some  other  products." 

The  fact  that  these  statements  and  a  multitude  of  others  of 
similar  character  were  made  and  published  by  Humphry  Davy,  and 
that  the  essays  containing  them  laid  the  foundation  of  his  scientific 
eminence,  should  leach  us  how  very  fragile  is  the  life  of  all  hypotheses 
based  upon  invented  ethers,  and  that  no  amount  of  frantic  dogmatism, 
emanating  from  whoever  it  niay,  should  lead  us  to  admit  iht p/iysicai 
suistantiai  existence  of  anything  that  cannot  be  submitted  to  the 
scrutiny  of  our  senses.  Hypotheses  are  indispensable  weapons  of 
scientific  conquest  when  used  oj  ^j'/i>/,4cjw,  but  become  insiniments 
of  scientific  suicide  when  handled  as  facts. 

Daw's  Earlv  Wokk. 

THE  volume  from  which  I  have  quoted  in  the  above  note  is  a 
curious  one.  Its  title  is  "  Essays  on  Heat,  Light,  and  the 
combinations  of  Light  ;  with  a  new  theory  of  Kespiration.  On  T/ie 
Genrralien  of  Oxygen  Gas,  and  the  causes  of  the  Colours  of 
Organic  Beings.     By  Humphry  Davy." 

A  large  number  of  experiments  are  described,  the  second  and 
third  of  which  are  those,  now  celebrated,  on  the  friction  of  ice, 

lonstrating  that  the  heat  thereby  produced  and  exerted  in  melting 
flie  rubbed  surfaces  could  not  be  any  kind  of  substance  such  as  the 
"caloric  "  of  the  period,  or  it  must  have  melted  the  cylinders  of  ice 
in  passing  through  them  to  the  rubbing  faces.  He  concludes  that 
heat  "  may  be  defined  a  peculiar  motion,"  and  that  "  it  may  with 
propriety  be  called  repulsive  motion." 

The  bulk  of  the  work  {230  pp.  octavo)  is  devoted  to  proving  the 
materiality  of  light  as  a  chemical  element,  descriljing  and  illustrat- 
ing by  experiments  its  combinations  with  other  elements.     He  says: 


I 


I 


The  Genileman' s 

"  This  substance  is  subject  to  the  common  laws  of  matter,  and  requires 
no  principles  but  attraction  and  repulsive  motion,  to  account  for  its 
appearances  and  changes.  It  enters  into  combination  with  bodies. 
In  the  phosphorescent  bodies  it  exists  in  a  state  of  loose  combina- 
tion. In  phos-oxygen  it  is  intimately  combined  with  oxygen.  From 
the  decomposition  of  phos-oxygen  by  bodies  which  attract  oxygen, 
the  phenomena  of  combustion  are  explained,"  and  further,  "Light 
enters  into  the  composition  of  living  bodies.  To  understand  these 
combinations  is  of  infinite  importance  to  man.  On  the  existence  of 
this  principle  in  organic  compounds,  perception,  thought,  and  happi- 
ness appear  to  depend." 

Davy's  part  of  the  book  (205  pp.)  is  supplemented  by  an  appen- 
dix entitled,  "Specimen  of  an  Arra.\geme\t  of  Bodics  according 
to  their  Principles,  by  the  Editor.  "  To  this  title  is  added,  in 
my  copy,  "Dr.  Beddoes"  in  Davy's  handwriting.  This  appendix 
contains  a  tabular  summary  of  an  arrangement  of  bodies  under  four 
great  classes;  i.  Light;  2.  Oxygen;  3.  Philoxygena ;  4.  Misox/- 
gena.  In  the  first  class  are  included  "Electric  fluid"  and  "Gal- 
vanic fluid  "  as  separate  entities. 

In  thisearly  work  Davy  had  already  thrown  Caloric  overboard  very 
positively  and  decidedly  ;  a  few  years  more  of  sound  scientific  disci- 
pline in  ihe  laboratory,  where  fallacies  are  refuted  by  precipitates,  and 
academic  subtleties  are  weighed  in  the  balance,  led  him  to  cast  away 
in  like  manner  his  plios-eiher  and  all  its  compounds,  and  as  he 
advanced  he  appears  to  have  approached  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
simple  conclusion  that  matter  is  not  inert,  but  eternally  active,  and 
that  all  its  chemical  and  general  properties,  all  the  phenomena  attri- 
buted to  imaginary  outside  entities,  such  as  heat,  light,  electricity,  &c., 
are  the  manifestations  of  different  varieties  of  such  eternal  activity. 

The  Beginning  of  Life. 

A  VERY  interesting  paper  on  "The  Origin  and  Life  Histories  of 
the  least  and  lowest  living  things,"  by  Dr.  Dallinger,  Is 
published  in  "Nature."  The  much  debated  subject  of  the  beginning 
of  life  is  there  discussed.  Dr.  Dallinger  shows  that  certain  experi- 
ments of  "a  trenchant  and  resolute  advocate  of  the  origin  of 
livings  forms  ife  novo''  (Bastian,  I  suppose)  may  have  lailed ;  that  the 
temperature  to  which  he  exposed  his  sealed  flasks  containing  an 
infusion  of  common  cress  was  not  sufficiently  high  to  have  destroyed 
the  germs  of  the  monad  he  found  there,  though  sufficient  to  have 
killed  the  mature  creatures. 

On  ibe  basis  of  this  failure  Dr,  Dallinger  finishes  his  paper  thus : 


Science  Notes.  97 

Thea  we  conclude  with  a  definite  issue,  viz.  by  experiment  it  is 
established  that  living  forms  do  not  now  arise  in  dead  mutter.  And 
by  study  of  the  forms  tht-mselves  it  is  proved  that,  like  all  the  more 
complex  forms  above  tbem,  they  arise  in  parental  products.  The  law 
is  as  ever,  only  that  which  is  living  can  give  birth  to  that  which  lives." 
Less  than  thirty  years  ago  precisely  the  same  language  as  this 
was  current  among  naturalists  in  reference  to  the  immutability  of 
spcoes.  They  then  said  just  as  positively  that  no  one  species  could 
give  birth  to  another  species,  that  all  existing  species  were  created 
originally  as  they  now  are.  The  reply  made  to  all  opjjosing  argu- 
ments was  simply  that  nobody  had  experimentally  succeeded  in 
tonverting  any  one  species  of  plant  or  animal  into  another.  Any- 
body questioning  this  dogma  was  a  heretical  paradoxer. 

How  stands  the  law  of  the  permanency  of  species  now?     Is  "the 

h«  as  ever"?     As  we  all  know,  anybody  who  now  questions  the 

■limited  mutability  of  species  is  a  biological  outcast.      Even   to 

t  that  plants  are  distinct  from  animals  is  now  a  heresy.     As 

Idward  Clodd  says  in  the  number  of  "Knowledge"  for  November 

"the  distinctions  between  plant  and  animal,  assumed  under  the 

ms   Botany  and  Zoology,   are  effaced  and  made  one  under  the 

n  of  Biology." 

Such  being  the  case,  it  is  very  rash  and  un philosophical  to  asseit 
'"  a  positive  law  on  the  basis  of  negative  evidence  ;  or,  in  other  words, 
to  assert  that  ignorance  supplies  knowledge.  Was  "the  trenchant 
and  resolute  advocate"  omnipotent?  Unless  he  were  so  the  failure 
of  his  experiments  is  no  proof  of  the  impossibility  of  doing  what  he 
a  Item  pled. 

The  question  of  the  origin  of  life  appears  to  me  to  stand  precisely 
■'Where  that  of  the  origin  of  species  stood  before  Darwin  wrote  his 
iological  principia.  We  knew  then  that  new  species  came  upon  the 
rorld  somelunv  ;  that  they  followed  other  species  in  (generally  speak- 
^)  ascending  order  ;  but  the  method  whereby  the  evolution  of  the 
ter  from  the  earlier  was  effected  still  remained  obscure. 

We  now  know  thai  very  low  forms  of  organic  matter  came  upon 
E  world  somehow,  that  they  followed  crystalline  and  other  forms 
f  inorganic  matter  somehuu;  in  ascending  order,  but  the  method 
reby  the  evolution  of  the  bier  from  the  earlier  was  effected  still 
lemains  obscure.  The  two  cases  are  strictly  parallel.  We  are,  at 
present,  unable  to  convert  inorganic  forms  of  matter  into  organic 
forms  in  our  laboratories ;  but  does  that  prove  its  impossibility  in  the 
laboratory  of  Nature? 

For  aught  we  know,  such  coniersion  may  be  rvovj  Yt'^^'^'i'i'>'^t 

VOZ.    CCLMII.        .VC,    /«,3.  \v 


[ 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

either  in  the  soil,  or  in  the  ocean,  or  in  the  air,  or  in  all  of  them 
simultaneously.  We  are  ignorant  of  these  things  :  let  us,  therefore,  as 
true  philosophers,  simply  confess  our  ignorance  and  continue  the 
search  for  more  knowledge,  and  never  slam  the  door  of  dogmatism 
in  the  face  of  research. 

POISOSINC.    GV    PURIi    WaTILK. 

THE  Conference  at  the  Health  Exhibition  and  the  Discussions 
at  the  Society  of  Arts  have  done  good  service  in  directing 
public  attention  to  the  vital  subject  of  our  water  supplies,  but  there 
's  one  aspect  of  the  subject  that  appears  to  have  been  overlooked, 
although  it  is  very  important. 

I  refer  to  the  possibility  of  being  poisoned  by  the  agency  of  water 
which  is  too  pure.  This  is  no  far-fetched  paradox,  but  a  very  serious 
danger.  If  Londoner  any  other  of  our  large  towns  were  supplied  with 
pure  distilled  water,  we  should  all  be  suffering  more  or  less  severely 
from  lead  colic,  or  even  fatal  lead  poisoning. 

The  reason  of  this  is  twofold,  ist.  Pure  water,  or  water  chai;ged 
only  with  catbonic  acid,  and  the  other  atmospheric  gases,  dissolves  a 
small  quantity  of  lead.  and.  Lead  is  a  cumulative  poison.  The 
small  dose  we  may  lake  to-day  remains,  and  is  added  to  that  we  may 
take  to-morrow.  Then  these  two  doses  remain  and  join  a  third  that 
may  be  swallowed  on  the  day  after,  and  so  on  until  serious  mischief 
is  done. 

The  sulphur  compounds  of  lead  are  remarkably  insoluble,  and 
ordinary  hard  or  chemically  impure  waler  contains  mote  or  less  of 
sulphur  compounds,  such  as  sulphates  ;  these  give  up  their  sulphur 
or  sulphuric  acid  to  exposed  surfaces  of  lead  or  lead  oxide,  and  thus 
coat  the  insides  of  our  lead  pipes  and  lead-lined  cisterns  with  an  in- 
soluble protecting  mineral  varnish,  which  saves  us  from  ihe  conse- 
quences above  named. 

A  very  simple  experiment  may  be  made  to  demonstrate  this.  Put 
some  well-cleaned  leaden  shots  in  a  botde  and  partially  fill  it  with 
distilled  water.  The  same  in  another  bottle,  but  using  common  hard 
water  such  as  is  usually  supplied  for  household  purposes.  Leave  them 
both  uncorked,  and  exposed  lo  the  same  conditions  for  a  month  or 
two.  Then  shake  and  examine.  The  distilled  water  will  be  found  to 
have  become  more  or  less  tuibid,  the  hard  water  not  sensibly  altered 
if  kept  free  from  dust,  and  if  the  shots  were  clean. 

Close  examination  will  show  that  the  turbidity  of  the  distilled 
water  is  due  to  minute  silky  crystalline  scales,  chiefly  composed 
a  peculiar  lead  carbonate  {hydrated  oxy carbonate). 


nposed  of     I 


Internal  Disinfection. 


Science  Notes. 

The  first  action  of  the  n-ater  is  to  oxidize  the  lead,  then  a  little 
of  this  oxide  is  dissolved  ia  the  water,  which  all  the  while  is  absorh- 
ing  carbonic  acid  from  the  air.  The  union  of  this  carbonic  acid  and 
water  with  the  dissolved  oxide  produces  the  scales  above  described. 

If  sulphuretted  hydrogen  gas  is  passed  through  the  water  thus 
impregnated  with  the  lead,  or  if  a  few  drops  of  ammonium  sulphide 
are  added  to  it,  the  presence  of  the  lead  is  indicated  by  the  charac- 
teristic blackening  of  the  whole. 

Rain  water  that  has  been  stored  in  leaden  cisterns  is  a  dangerous 
beverage  on  this  account.  In  all  cases,  whatever  be  the  nature  of 
the  water  supply,  the  contents  of  pipes  and  tanks  of  a  house  that 
has  been  for  some  time  uninhabited  should  be  poured  out  completely 
and  all  well  Hushed  before  using  them  again. 

»T  N  some  previous  notes  I  have  described  the  antiseptic  action  of 
X  boric  acid  and  borates,  and  discussed  the  question  whether 
^all  quantities  may  be  taken  daily  into  the  system  without  injury. 
This  is  becoming  a  question  of  considerable  practical  importance, 
now  that  meat  may  be  preserved  by  the  injection  of  boric  acid  in 
such  a  manner  that  the  consumer  of  such  meal  cannot  distinguish  it 
from  meat  killed  without  such  injection. 

M.  E.  de  Cyon  has  recently  laid  before  the  French  Academy 
some  further  results  of  his  experiments  on  this  subject.  He  states 
that  borax  may  be  taken  internally  in  quantity  amounting,  to  fifteen 
grammes  (more  than  half  an  ounce  avoirdupois}  daily  without  pro- 
ducing any  functional  disturbance.  As  the  quantity  of  boric  acid 
injected  into  a  sheep,  in  order  to  preserve  the  mutton,  only  amounts 
to  about  four  ounces,  and  much  of  that  is  withdrawn  in  the  final 
bleeding,  the  most  carnivorous  of  human  beings  could  not  eat  enough 
of  borized  meat  to  do  any  mischief.  But  M.  de  Cyon  now  goes 
further,  and  affirms  that  the  six  grammes  of  borax  (one-fifth  of  an 
ounce)  which  he  recommended  to  be  taken  daily  with  food  will  not 
only  exert  a  direct  action  on  the  microbes  in  the  alimentary  canal, 
but  will  also  be  absorbed  into  the  blood  and  attack  the  bacilli  that 
have  penetrated  it. 

During  the  violent  cholera  epidemic  which  raged  in  Italy  in 
1864-65  the  workmen  employed  at  the  celebrated  fumerolles  of 
Larderello,  and  the  seven  borax  factories  connected  with  them,  com- 
pletely escaped  the  epidemic,  while  a  village  less  than  two  miles 
distant  lost  a  third  of  its  inhabitants. 

These  fumeroUes  are  natural  jets  of  steam  charged  with  boric 


i 


lOO  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

acid,  which  are  thrown  up  through  fissures.  This  steam  is  condensed, 
and  from  the  solution  thus  obtained  large  quantities  of  borax  is 
manufactured,  so  much,  that  until  my  old  friend,  Arthur  Robottom, 
opened  up  the  great  CaUfomian  deposit  {see  Science  Note,  March 
i8St),  Count  Laj-darello  had  a  virtual  monopoly  of  this  important 
product.  The  practical  testimony  afforded  by  the  immunity  of  these 
workmen  affords,  I  think,  better  evidence  than  any  that  is  obtainable 
by  laboratory  experiments,  necessarily  limited  to  a  few  individuals. 
It  remains  equally  valid  whether  cholera  is  caused  by  bacilli  or  other 
microbia,  or  by  no  microbia  at  all. 

Fossil.  Manlre. 

IN  Dingler's  PolyUchinsche Journal  is  a  paper  by  C.  Winkler  on 
the  utilisation  of  the  waste  gases  from  coke  ovens,  more 
especially  relating  to  the  collection  of  the  ammonia.  The  details  are 
technical,  but  the  genera!  fact  that  by  skilful  arrangement  large 
quantities  of  fertilising  material  are  obtainable  is  interesting  to  all. 

Winkler  estimates  the  total  consumption  of  coal  for  mere  coking 
purposes  amounts  to  eighteen  millions  of  tons  annually,and  that  from 
this  quantity  58,600  tons  of  ammonia  are  produced  and  might  be 
collected.  This  is  equal  in  nitrogenous  fertilising  material  to  the 
whole  of  the  sodium  nitrate  obtained  from  Souih  America. 

All  this,  however,  is  but  a  trifle  compared  with  ihat  which  is 
actually  obtained  otherwise  from  coal  but  not  appropriated.  All  the 
coal  that  is  burned  gives  off  nitrogenous  compounds  of  great  fertilising 
value,  .\lthough  nobody  sells  or  buys  these,  they  must  sooner  or 
later  fall  upon  the  land  or  the  sea,  and  exert  their  fertilising  agency 
in  either  case. 

Thus  we  are  continually  bringing  to  the  surface  v.ist  quantities  of 
fossil  manure,  the  fatness  otlhe  ancient  earth,  and  m.iking  it  coniribule 
to  our  present  wealth.  Not  only  are  we  doing  this  by  means  of  the 
fossil  vegetation  of  the  coal  scams,  but  also  by  using  the  coprolites 
and  bones  of  fossil  animals  and  the  potash  of  granitic  rocks. 

If  the  carbonic  acid  produced  by  coal  combustion  remains  in  our 
atmosphere  without  diffusion  into  space,  we  are  also  increasing  the 
stock  of  respiratory  matter  which  is  the  chief  food  of  plants  and  from 
which  the  bulk  of  their  solid  frame  is  built  up. 

The  fishes  are  fed  primarily  by  the  vegetation  of  the  ocean  and 
other  waters.  This  food,  as  well  as  that  derived  from  the  land,  must 
be  increasing  as  the  world  grows  older.  Will  such  increase  of 
primary  food-material  increase  as  rapidly  as  the  human  race  will 
increase  after  it  has  appropriated  the  vast  existing  vacancies  on 
the  earth  ?  ■«•  ^f^T^iE"  williams. 


TABLE  TALK. 


Pope  and  Betterton. 


DURING  the  dark  days  of  December  I  had  the  privilege  of 
examiniog  at  Caen  Wood,  the  seat  of  Lord  Mansfield,  a  few 
relics  of  Pope^  and  sorae  other  objects  of  interest  which  are  not 
easily  accessible.  These  include  the  bust  of  Homer,  presented  to 
the  first  Lord  Mansfield  by  the  poet.  The  most  important  of  the 
relics  and  the  special  object  of  my  quest  was,  however,  the  portrait  of 
Betterton,  which  Pope  in  his  early  years  is  known  to  have  painted. 
That  the  portrait  existed  at  Caen  Wood  during  tlie  last  century  was 
sUlcd  in  the  "  Bbgraphia  Britannica."  Recent  inquiries  as  to  its 
existence  have,  however,  been  fruitless,  and  I  accepted  with  adequate 
acknowledgments  the  permission  to  inspect  it.  The  portrait,  which 
is  a  half-length,  hangs  in  the  billiard-room  facing  the  light  and 
immediately  beneath  a  characteristic  and  known  portrait  of  Pope  by 
Pood.  It  shows  the  actor  a  strong-built  man  of  ripe  years,  with  a 
bnght  intelligent  face,  a  high  complexion,  and  a  rather  burly  figure. 
The  original  work  from  which  it  is  taken  belonged  once  to  the  Duke 
of  Dorset  It  is  now  in  the  dining-room  at  Knote,  where  is  also  a- 
«econd  portrait,  by  Kneller,  dated  1 708,  which  shows  the  actor  an  . 
man  with  while  liair,  in  a  sea-green  gown.  In  tlie  picture  copied. 
Pope,  Betterton  is  mucli  younger,  and  wears  a  black  robe.  Both 
the  original  and  the  copy  were,  I  am  told  with  characteristic  kind- 
ness by  Mr.  Scbarf,  on  view  at  the  Portrait  Exhibition  of  1867. 
Pope's  workmanship  is  deficient  in  vigour  and  expression.  It& 
colouring,  so  far  as  could  be  judged  under  the  influences  of  a 
December  sky,  is  dark  and  sound.  The  interest  of  a  work  of  this 
kind  connecting  two  men  so  eminent  in  their  respective  ways,  who  met 
in  the  advanced  age  of  the  one  and  the  youth  of  the  other,  is  incon- 
testable. Other  paintings  to  be  seen  at  Caen  Wood  include  The 
Village  Politicians  of  Sir  David  Wilkie,  a  superb  portrait  of  the  first 
earl  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and  1  portrait  of  Lady  Stormont  by 

imney,  which  may  almost  be  regarded  as  that  artist's  masterpiece. 
n  Wood  is  not  seen  at  its  best   under  December  influences  and 

leDthe  family  is  absent.     Its  rose  garden,  sheltered  from  the  north 


i 


» 


102  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

winds  by  the  imposing  rows  of  pines  with  which  the  visitor  to 
Highgate  is  familiar,  must,  however,  be  in  summer  a  veritable  bower 
of  Arcadia.  The  library  at  Caen  Wood  is  a  singularly  handsome  room, 
well  stocked  with  folios  and  quartos. 

A  Bridge  across  Two  and  a  HAi,r  Cemturies. 

IT  has  been  a  favourite  proceeding  with  certain  writers  to  point 
out  how  few  lives  separate  the  living  from  the  illustrious  dead. 
Without  estimating  verj-  highly  this  device,  I  am  inclmed,  for  once, 
to  employ  it.  Between  the  death  of  the  great  first  Earl  of  Mansfield 
and  the  birth  of  the  present  bearer  of  the  title,  to  whom  reference 
is  made  in  the  previous  paragraph,  there  was  an  interval  of 
thirteen  years.  The  first  Earl  of  Mansfield  was  the  close  friend  of 
:.'■.. 'Pope,  who  dedicated  to  him  his  "  Imitation  of  the  Sixth  Epistle  of 
;....the  First  Book  of  Horace,"  a  poem  in  which,  with  a  bathos  he  sorely 
..••repented  and  never  equalled,  he  spoke  of  the  then  successful  pleader 
"'■■as 
'•'.■."_'  "So  known,  so  honoured,  at  the  house  of  lords," 

:'."■  Pope,  as  I  have  shown,  painted  the  portrait  of  Betterton,  who, 
V -.according  to  accepted  dates,  was  born  nineteenyears  after  the  death  Of 
'■_'__Shake.ipeare.  To  make  the  case  stronger,  indeed,  the  first  Lord  Mans. 
'.  •'••field  might  easily  have  spoken  to  Betterton.  In  that  case  I  might  to-day 
■_""be  in  the  presence  of  a  man  separated  by  only  thirteen  years  from 
one  who  knew  another  separated  by  nineteen  years  from  Shakespeare. 

"To  place  the  matter  in  another  light,  no  more  than  thirteen  years 

.....separate  the  still  living  earl  from  the  contemporary  of  Betterton  and 
'.'■'/the  friend  of  Pope,  Thirteen  years  are  not  much  to  enable  a  man  to 
:*-.;*shake  hands  with  one  born  in  1635  and  a  second  alive  in  1885. 
'  _.lThis  case  is  not,  of  course,  the  most  curious  that  could  be  advanced. 
'•■-'.The  character  of  those  concerned  in  the  computation  confers  on  it, 
-.'.■'■  Jio we ver,  special  interest. 


A  Johnson  Commemoration. 


THE  centenary  of  Johnson  was  celebrated  by  one  festii 
least  at  which  Johnson  would  have  been  glad,  if  alive,  to  h 
been  present.  In  the  fine  old  room  in  St.  John's  Gate,  Clerkenwell,  1 
in  which  Johnson  and  Cave  were  accustomed  to  work,  and  in  which,  ^ 
it  is  reported,  Johnson  took  his  dinner  behind  the  screen,  a  number 
of  well-known  workers  in  literature  and  art  belonging  to  the  Urban 
Club,  which  is  named  after  Sylvanus  Urban,  assembled  to  do  honour 


iv^H 
:o  have  1 
en  well,   I 


Vud 


Table  Talk. 

to  ihc  txxasion.  The  proceedings  had,  of  course,  a  festive  aspect 
which  was  naturally  not  the  least  agreeable  portion.  The  more 
serious  portion  included  addresses  from  Mr.  Church,  the  secretary  of 
the  club,  who  delivered  an  "  oration  "  upon  Dr.  Johnson,  in  course 
of  which  he  introduced  Johnsons  letter  to  Chestertield  upon  finishing 
the  Dictionary ;  from  Ur.  Lemprifcre,  who,  in  proposing  a  toast,  read 
quaint  extracts  from  letters,  not  easily  accessible,  which  bore  upon 
Johnson;  and  from  Mr.  Cordyjeaffreson,  who,  in  his  researches,  under- 
taken on  behalf  of  the  Record  Office  into  the  Clerkenwell  sessional 
archives,  had  discovered  that  in  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James  I. 
the  room  now  rich  with  memories  of  Johnson  and  Garrick,  bad  been 
used  for  the  Middlesex  Sessions.  .  .  .  Many  (ther  well-known 
literary  men  took  part  in  the  proceedings,  which  were  of  high  in  teres!, 
formed  an  appropriate  tribute  to  the  great  writer  and  scholar, 


Mr.  Ruskin's  New  History  of  Enci-anr. 


LOVERS  of  literature  are  glad  that  Mr.  Ruskin  is  re- writing  the 
History  of  England.  No  word  that  falls  from  his  eloquentlips 
is  wholly  destitute  of  value,  and  when  his  views  are  least  convincing 
the  charm  of  his  utterance  does  not  fail.  I  am  a  little  curious  to 
know  what  would  become  of  one  who  took  in  serious  earnest  Mr. 
Ruskin's  teaching,  and  subjected  his  life  to  the  difficult  and  in  a 
sense  reaciionary  influences  he  approves.  That  faith,  for  instance, 
cac  yet  do  marvels,  none  with  the  career  of  Gordon  in  full  sight  will 
dream  of  denying.  Is  it  however,  true,  that  faith  in  any  narrow  and 
applied  sense  is  indispensable  to  happiness?  Verysweellj  and  seduc- 
tively for  the  pleasure  thence  to  bederived  does  Mr.  Ruskin  advise  you 
for  a  year  to  adopt  the  principles  of  Augustine,  urging  that,  "  If, 
dien,  you  are  no  happier,  at  least  you  will  be  able  with  more  grace 
and  more  modesty  to  be  of  the  same  opinion  still.  If  you  are 
minded  thus  to  trj-,  begin  each  day  wilh  Alfred's  prayer  ;  tlien  set  to 
work  with  no  thought  of  ambition,  or  gain,  or  pleasure,  more  than 
is  appointed  you,  but  with  a  steady  determination  to  do  something 
for  the  help  or  honour  of  j-our  counlry,  resolving  not  lo  join  in  the 
world's  iniquities,  nor  to  turn  aside  from  its  miseries.  Live  thus 
and  believe,  that  with  a  swiftness  of  answer  proportionate  to  the 
truth  of  your  endeavour,  the  God  of  hope  will  till  you  with  all  peace 
and  joy."  In  the  counsel  given  in  these  glowing  words,  all  thought- 
ful men  will  join,  all  sucli,  indeed,  to  the  extent  of  their  influence  do 
join.  Is  the  reward,  however,  then  certain?  I  could  tell  Mr.  Ruskin 
of  more  than  one  life  in  which  the  highest  intellectual  enjoyment 


i 


The  Gentieman's  Magazine. 


ever  reached  was  when  Che  clouds  of  dogma,  and  superstition,  and 
cruehy,  and  credulity  were  passed  and  the  first  invigorating  draug^it 
of  mountain  air  was  drunk,  with  nothing  but  imperfect  vision  to 
hinder  a  long  cleat  gaze  upon  the  sun  of  truth.  "  '  What  is  truth  ? ' 
asked  jesting  Pilate,  and  would  not  wait  for  an  answer."  "  'What  is 
faith  ?  "  is  a  question  to  which  Mr.  Ruskin  may  find  time  to  reply. 

Origin  of  the  Myth. 

AGAINST  the  philological  origin  of  the  myth  whicli,  advanced  by 
a  man  of  such  well-earned  eminence  as  Professor  Max  MuUer, 
has  won  in  England  acceptance  all  but  undisputed,  Mr.  I^ng,  in 
his  new  volume,  "  Custom  and  Myth,"  '  advances  some  strong  argu- 
ments. To  explain  the  theory  with  which  he  confronts  the  views 
of  popular  mythologists  takes  Mr.  Lang  an  entire  essay.  Not  easy 
is  it  accordingly  to  compress  into  a  paragraph  what  is  vital  in  his 
volume.  It  may,  however,  be  said  that  the  system  Mr.  Lang  follows 
is  that  of  tracing  by  means  of  Folk  Lore  a  mythological  story  to  some 
practice  of  a  savage  people.  Why  the  civilised  Greek  in  the  per- 
formance of  the  mysteries  of  his  religion  should  dance  with  harmless 
serpents  in  his  hands  appears  incomprehensible.  \Vhen  real  rattle- 
snakes are  grasped  in  a  dance  by  Red  Indians  as  a  proof  0/  fourqge,  a 
possible  origin  for  a  custom  of  this  kind  among  the  Greeks  is  sug- 
gested. In  his  treatment  of  the  myth  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  a  species 
of  Red  Indian  version  of  which  I  have  just  read  in  Mr.  Charles  G. 
Leland's  marvellously  interesting  book,  "The  Algonquin  Legends 
of  New  England,"  '  Mr.  Lang  shows  how  in  early  days  of  coun- 
tries in  which  the  myth  in  some  form  is  found,  it  is  apparent  that 
for  a  wife  to  see  her  husband  without  his  garments  must  have  been 
prohibited.  In  this,  rather  than  in  the  analyses  of  the  proper  names 
of  the  parties,  he  finds  the  origin  of  the  story.  In  like  manner  Mr. 
Lang  sees  Totemism  in  the  myth  of  Apollo  and  [he  Mouse,  and  a 
development  of  the  bull-roarer  of  the  Australians  in  a  portion  of  the 
mysterious  rites  practised  by  the  Greeks  in  the  worship  of  Demeter 
and  Dionysos.  With  the  acceptance  of  Mr.  I,ang's  ingenious  propo- 
sitions will  come  a  disruption  of  the  Pan-Aryanism  thai  has  dominated 
and  oppressed  English  thought.  That  Mr.  Lang  will  not  be  without 
allies  in  this  crusade  against  the  pretensions  of  the  Sanskritists  may 
be  found  by  any  one  who  turns  to  the  note  on  page  155  of  Captain 
Burton's  "  History  of  the  Sword."  '  The  subject  is  outside  my  ken, 
but  there  is  much  force  in  what  Mr.  Lang  urges. 

SVLVANUS   UKBAN. 
'  Longman!.,  Oieen,  &;  Co,         "  Sampson  Low  &  Co.         '  ChnUo  &  Windux. 


» 


THE 

GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE. 

February  1885. 
THE   UNFORESEEN. 

Bv  Alice  O'Haslon.  j 

Chapter  V.  I 

"1  WILL  BE  GUIDED  BV  VOUR  ADVICE."  ' 

QUEBEC,  it  lias  been  said,  "presents  the  anomaly  of  a  medieval 
European  city  in  the  midst  of  an  American  landscape." 
Built  on  a  lofty  promontory,  in  an  angle  formed  by  the 
juncture  of  the  rivers  St.  Lawrence  and  St.  Charles,  it  certainly  is  a 
very  quaint  as  well  as  a  very  conspicuous  object.  With  its  metal 
roofs  and  spires  glittering  in  the  sun,  its  massive  fortifications  and 
baiilem^iU  surrounding  the  "  Upper  Town,"  its  suburbs  clustering 
around  beneath  grim  cltfls  or  speading  up  the  terraced  slopes,  and 
its  long  line  of  busy  wharfs,  the  city  presents,  also,  a  very  beautiful 
object.  And  in  its  environing  scenery  it  is  no  less  fortunate  than  in 
the  maritime  strength  of  its  position.  Rivers  and  lakes,  hills  and 
woods,  fertile  plains  and  distant  mountains,  clear  air  and  blue  skies 
blend  together  in  the  seasons  of  summer  and  autumn  to  form  a 
picture  of  almost  idyllic  beauty. 

More  French  than  Montreal,  or,  indeed,  than  any  other  of  the 
chief  Canadian  towns,  this  fact  comes  into  prominence  everywhere  in 
the  quaint  old  city.  In  the  names  of  the  streets  and  the  signboards 
over  the  shops  there  is  a  curious  admixture  of  the  two  languages. 
Behind  the  counter  English  goods  are  sold  to  you  by  a  Frenchman 
for  English  money.  The  vehicles  are  of  a  French  make ;  the  dress, 
the  talk,  and  the  physiognomies  of  the  lower  orders  proclaim  their 
Gallic  origin.  Unfortunately  the  two  races  thus  living  side  by  side 
do  not  blend  readily.  \Vea!thier  and  more  energetic,  the  English 
rise  like  oil  to  the  surface  of  society.    Their  dwellings,  too,  like 

LlhemseWes,  dominate  those  of  their  less  successful  neighbours.  They       A 


The  Genileiuans  Magazine. 

are  situated,  together  with  the  principal  shops,  in  what  is  termed  the 
"  Upper  Town,"  within  the  enclosure  of  the  ramparts. 

For  the  most  part,  these  houses  (belonging  to  rich  bankers  and 
well-to-do  merchants)  are  riot,  or  at  least  they  were  not  forty  years 
ago,  very  pretentious  in  style,  and  comfort  rather  than  show  was 
considered  in  their  interior  appointments.  At  the  date  of  our  story, 
one  of  these  houses  in  the  "  Upper  Town,"  about  the  largest  and 
most  elegantly  furnished  of  them  all,  belonged  to  a  Mr.  Estcourt,  an 
extensive  exporter  of  timber.  Mr.  Estcourt  was  likcHise  partner  in  a 
small  shipbuilding  concern  on  the  Thames,  and  was  reputed  to  be  a 
man  of  great  wealth.  He  had  lost  his  wife  some  five  years  ago,  and 
the  family  now  consisted  of  himself  and  an  only  daughter,  twenty-one 
years  of  age. 

About  a  fortnight  subsequently  to  the  events  of  the  last  chapter, 
Miss  Claudia  Estcourt  and  a  young  lady  two  years  her  junior  were 
alone  together  in  the  upper-story  drawing-room  of  her  father's 
house.  It  was  the  afternoon  of  a  warm,  bright  day,  but  an  awning, 
stretched  from  the  three  windows  of  the  room  across  a  balcony 
that  ran  outside,  threw  it  into  cool  and  pleasant  shadow-  Neither 
of  the  girls  was  occupied  with  any  feminine  employment  No  books 
or  work  httered  the  room,  nor  for  a  long  lime  had  either  of  them 
uttered  a  syllable.  A  glance,  however,  would  have  sufficed  to  show 
that  this  silence  was  not  the  result  of  apathy.  Both  girls,  it  was 
evident,  were  under  the  stress  of  excitement,  and  of  excitement  of  no 
common  nature. 

Seated  on  a  low  chair,  her  hands  clasped  together,  and  her  elbows 
resting  on  her  knee  as  she  leaned  forward,  one  of  them  was  gazing  in 
mute  distress  at  the  other.  She  was  rather  a  plain  girl  this — with  a 
snub  nose,  freckled  skin,  and  hazel  eyes.  Nevertheless  her  face  was 
an  interesting  one,  and,  better  still,  it  was  a  lovable  one.  A  true 
index  to  her  nature,  it  was  full  of  unaffected  kindness  and  frank 
simplicity. 

The  other  girl  was  beautiful,  with  that  kind  of  beauty  which  is 
perhaps  the  most  fascinating  of  all,  because  it  has  about  it  a  pathetic 
element.  Tali  and  slim  in  figure,  she  had  a  delicate,  ethereal- looking 
face,  and  a  complexion  of  peculiar  purity.  Her  eyes  were  large,  grey 
in  colour,  and  shaded  by  long  lashes.  Their  expression  was  wistful, 
and,  in  fact,  the  whole  cast  of  the  countenance  was,  as  a  rule, 
thoughtful,  even  pensive.  There  were  times,  however,  when 
Claudia  Estcourt — for  this  girl  was  she — would  break  forth  into 
flashes  of  sparkling  gaiety.  And  at  such  times,  the  winsome  smile, 
which  played  like  summer  sunshine  over  her  usually  grave  features, 


Si 
■Wbac 


T/te  Unforeseen.  107 

kid  ihe  effect  of  rendering  her  perfectly  irresistible,  not  only  to  the 
opposite  sex,  but  to  her  oim. 

At  the  present  moment,  however,  although  plainly  under  the 
inAuence  of  a  feverish  excitement,  that  enciteraent  was  as  plainly  not 
Ihe  exhilaration  of  mirth,  but  something  far  otherwise. 

Dressed  in  a  pale-blue  robe  of  some  soft  clinging  material,  which 
suited  her  fragile  beauty  to  perfection,  and  wliich  swept  after  her  in 
a  long  train,  Claudia  was  pacing  the  room  to  and  &o  with  irregular, 
uncertain  steps. 

Suddenly,  pausing  before  a  timepiece,  she  turned  to  her  comjjanion 
exclaimed ; — 

"  Oh,  Elk,  he  will  be  here  in  iialf  an  hour  !  What  am  I  to  do  ? 
do?" 
Dear  Claudia,"  answered  the  other  girl  (whose  concern  was 
purely  sympathetic,  not  personal),  "  you  know  we  have  settled  that 
question.  Vou  know  very  well  what  you  have  to  do — ^just  lo  tell  the 
simple  truth." 

"The  simple  truth!"  echoed  Claudia,  impatiently.  "Ah,  yes,  it 
is  easy  enough  for  you  to  talk,  Ella.  But  you  don't  know  Douglas 
Awdry  as  I  do.  You  can't  understand  what  it  will  look  like  to  him — 
that  '  simple  truth,'  as  you  call  it !  " 

"Yes,  dear,  I  can  understand.  I  believe  that  it  will  be  a  shock 
to  him,  a  very  great  shock.     ^Ve  have  both  recognised  that;  but " 

"  It's  no  use  !  I  couldn't  do  it !  The  longer  I  think  of  it  the 
more  impossible  it  seems,"  broke  in  Claudia.  "Oh,  Ella!" — she 
dropped  on  her  knees  by  her  friend's  side— "why  should  I  tcil  him 
at  all?  Why  should  we  not  bury  the  past — blot  it  out  as  though  it 
had  never  been  ?  I  have  had  so  much  trouble,  I  must  have  a  little 
happiness  now  1 "  she  went  on  eagerly — her  large  eyes  glistening  with 
unshed  tears.  "  I  love  him  so,  Ella  ;  and  I  know — I  know  that  if  I 
teil  him  this  horrible  thing  it  will  be  all  over  between  us  I  " 

"  Claudia,  are  we  to  go  over  the  whole  argument  again  ?  "  Ella 
Thome  put  this  question  in  a  firm  voice,  whilst  she  laid,  also,  a 
resolute  grasp  on  her  companion's  shoulder.  "  1  do  not  believe  that 
the  result  would  be  what  you  say.  Captain  Awdry  has  loved  you 
so  long  and  so  ardently,  that  his  devotion  will  stand  diis  test.  But 
even  if  it  were  not  so — even  supposing  that — — " 

"  Don't  suppose  it,  Ella  !  Now  that  I  am  free,  I  could  not  bear 
— I  really  could  not  bear  to  lose  him." 

"  But,  Claudia,  you  cannot  marry  him  with  your  secret  untold. 
I  thought  that  was  quite,  quite  decided  ?  You  know  that  it  would 
be  at  the  risk  of  your  whole  future  happiness.     You  know  that  it 


i 


The  Gejitletn ait's  Magazine. 

would  be  to  weight  yourself  wilh  a  burden  of  deception  far  heavier  td 
bear  than  it  has  been  in  the  past,  because  the  consequences  of  detec- 
tion would  be  so  infinitely  more  serious.  Oh,  Claudia,  how  can 
you  still  waver  and  hesitate  !  Apart  from  the  wrong  to  him,  con- 
cealment would  be  the  supremest  folly  on  your  own  account" 

"  Yes,  I  know — I  know  you  are  right,  Ella.  But  I  am  such  a 
coward,"  admitted  Claudia,  feebly.  "  And  I  am  so  afraid  of  losing 
his  affection." 

"  You  will  not  lose  it,  I  feel  sure,"  Ella  answered.  "  But  better 
risk  doing  so  now  a  thousand  times  than  after  marriage.  But  we 
have  gone  over  all  this  before.  Claudia  darling,  I  am  so  sorry  for 
you,  but  you  must  be  brave,  you  must  be  candid." 

"  If  I  could  only  keep  back  your  share  in  it,  the  confession  would 
be  easier,"  faltered  Claudia.  "  I  mean,  that  if  I  could  assure  him 
that  not  a  soul  but  myself  knew  the  truth,  it  would  be  less  annoying 
to  him,  I  believe," 

"Possibly  it  might  But  you  cannot  keep  that  back, because  you 
must  tell  him  the  whole  story,  just  as  it  happened.  Ah  1  I  wirfi 
you  eould  do  away  with  my  share  in  it.  I  feel  bitterly  ashamed 
and  mad  with  myself  when  I  recollect  what  that  share  was — how 
that,  instead  of  opposing  and  discouraging  you,  I  even  helped,  and 
thought  it  all  delightfully  romantic.  I  was  as  much  to  blame  as  your- 
self, Claudia.  I  had  no  common-sense  in  those  days — not  an  atom 
of  common-sense — or  I  might  have  saved  you.  Oh,  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  forgive  myself  for  it  1 " 

"  Nonsense,  Ella  ;  you  know  you  were  only  a  child.  Vou  were 
not  fifteen.  No  one  could  i>lame  you,"  protested  her  friend.  "  And  " 
how  good  you  have  been  to  me  since  I  How  faithfully  you  ha\-e 
kept  my  secret !  What  a  relief  it  has  been  to  rae,  loo,  to  be  able  to 
talk  to  you  about  it !  Without  you,  I  don't  know  how  I  could  have 
borne  these  dreadful  years." 

"  Then  let  me  be  of  still  furtlier  use  to  you,  dear.  Let  me  at 
least  prevent  you  from  getting  into  worse  mischief  and  deeper  trouble 
than  ever,"  pleaded  Ell.i.  "  I  know  you  are  older  than  I,  but,  for 
pity's  sake,  listen  to  me  i " 

"  I  am  neither  so  wise  nor  so  good  as  you,  Ella,  though  I  am 
older,"  protested  Claudia,  warmly.  "  Yes,  I  «■('//  be  guided  by  your 
advice.  At  all  hazards,  I  Will  tell  Captain  Awdiy  the  trulK  I 
promise  it" 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  ! "  cried  Ella,  seizing  both  her  companion's 
hands.  "  Only  be  firm  nowj  don't  let  your  resolution  waver  again. 
It  mil  be  like  a  surgical  operation — painM  for  the  moment,  but  when 


The  Unforeseen.  109 

it  is  over,  darling,  you  will  be  free.  You  will  feel  such  a  sense  of 
relief " 

"  Or  of  despair,"  added  Claudia.  "  Hush  !  He  is  here !  That 
is  his  step  ou  the  stairs  ! 

"  Then  let  me  run  away,"  said  Ella,  springing  up,  "  Now,  be 
brave,  be  courageous.     Remember,  you  have  promised  me  1 " 

And  as  a  tap  sounded  on  one  door  of  the  oblong  apartment  Miss 
^L    Ella  Thome  escaped  by  another  situated  at  the  opposite  end- 


Chaiter  VI. 

THE   DREADED    INTERVIEW. 


"Captain  Awdrv." 

The  serving  man  who  made  this  announcement  having  closed 
the  drawing-room  door  behind  him,  walked  off  with  a  curious  smile 
on  his  face,  and  his  mouth  contracted  as  though  for  the  emission  of 
t  whistle.  The  occasion  of  his  amused  surprise  was  the  fact,  or 
rather  the  very  natural  inference  which  he  drew  from  the  fact,  that, 
on  glancing  into  the  room  to  make  sure  that  his  young  mistress  was 
present,  he  had  seen  her  rise  from  a  sofa,  upon  which  she  had  thrown 
herself  at  the  moment  of  Miss  Thome's  exit,  her  face  sufliised  to  the 
very  temples  with  a  deep  blush. 

The  visitor  whom  he  had  introduced  noticed,  likewise,  that  tell- 
tale blush,  and  the  joy  it  inspired  within  him  was  so  great  that  for  a 
moment  it  took  away  his  power  of  speech  and  even  of  motion. 
Arrested  on  his  way  towards  her,  he  stood  gating  at  the  slender 
and  beautiful  girl,  from  whom  never  before  had  his  comings  or  goings 
didted  the  exhibition  of  such  emotion  as  this.  Taking  advantage  of 
that  brief  pause  whilst  he  stands  before  us,  hat  in  hand,  let  us  snatch 
a  hasty  glance  at  this  gentleman's  face  and  form. 

Not,  however,  that  a  hasly  glance  can  ever  suffice  to  give  one  an 
unerring  impression  of  any  man's  or  woman's  face.  The  knowledge 
of  a  countenance  must  grow  upon  one  like  the  knowledge  of  a 
character.  Until  seen  in  all  the  varying  moods  and  lenses  of  the 
iofbrming  mind  that  lies  beliind,  there  are  faces  which  will  ever 
remain  to  us  virtually  unknown.  And  after  having  been  so  seen,  it 
is  in  certain,  not  very  exceptional,  cases  most  difficult  to  recover 
our  first  impression  of  a  face,  because  of  the  unlikeness  of  that 
impression  to  what  familiarity  has  taught  us  to  be  the  reality. 

But  to  catalo^e,  so  far  as  can  be  done,  the  saWeivX  ^q\t\\.^  cH 


The  Gentlmiatis  Magazine. 

our  new  aquaintance.  Douglas  Awdry  was  neither  fair  nor  dark. 
His  eyes  and  hair  were  brown,  the  latter  having  something  of  a  chest- 
nut tinge,  and  he  wore  a  military  moustache  of  the  same  shade. 

In  age  about  twenty-eight,  he  could  boast  an  upright,  well-poised 
figure,  broad  shoulders,  and  powerful  muscles.  Altogether,  from  an 
athletic  point  of  view,  a  fine  specimen  of  English  manhood;  his 
speech  and  bearing  proclaimed  him  to  be  also,  both  by  nature  and 
culture,  a  gentleman. 

As  for  his  features,  though  as  far  as  possible  from  expresdng 
sensuality,  they  belonged  to  a  man  of  strong  passions  and  feelings 
(even  a  glance  was  enough  to  convey  some  perception  of  this  fact). 
Id  the  set  of  the  projecting  chin  there  were  indications  of  ability  and 
determination,  whilst  in  the  curve  of  nostril  and  lip  a  practised 
physiognomist  might  have  detected  the  existence  both  of  great  pride 
and  great  sensitiveness. 

For  four  years  now  Captain  Awdry  had  known  Miss  Estcourt,  and 
for  nearly  as  long  he  had  bci^n  in  love,  and  very  deeply  in  love,  with 
her.  Twice  during  this  lime  he  had  offered  her  his  hand,  and  in  spite 
of  her  refusal  had  continued,  until  very  recently,  to  pay  her  assiduous 
court.  But  of  late,  beginning  to  despair  of  ultimate  success,  he  had 
desisted  from  his  attentions  and  had  kept  himseU  aloof  from  her 
society.  On  the  previous  evening,  however,  Claudia  and  he  had  met 
at  the  house  of  a  mutual  friend,  and  a  marked  alteration  in  the  young 
lady's  manner  towards  him  had  resulted  in  a  sudden  revival  of 
Awdry's  dead  hopes  and  in  this  afternoon's  visit  by  appointmenL 
Now  as  it  chanced  that  about  this  time  there  was  also  a  very  marked 
and  unlooked-for  alteration  (for  the  better)  in  the  Captain's  prospects 
in  life,  he  might,  not  unnaturally,  have  attributed  the  unexpected 
encouragement  he  had  received  to  this  cause.  Not  for  one  moment, 
however,  had  the  young  man  harboured  such  a  suspicion  in  his  mind, 
and  in  this  respect  (however  it  might  be  with  the  general  high 
estimation  in  which  he  held  her)  he  did  the  girl  no  more  than  justice. 
Neither  avarice  nor  ambition  as  regarded  social  status  was  Miss 
Estcourt's  besetting  sin.  Whilst  she  now  faced  her  lover,  trembling 
and  blushing,  she  was  not  tliinking  of  the  wealth  and  the  high 
position  which  it  had  lately  become  in  his  power  to  offer  her,  but  of 
something  very  different  She  was  studying  his  expression  with  a 
view  to  discover  how  he  was  likely  to  take  that  confession  she  bad 
bound  herself  to  make  to  him.  And  as  she  read  in  his  face  the 
intense  admiration,  afTeclion,  and  delight  wherewith  he  was  regarding 
her,  the  fears  she  had  entertained  respecting  the  interview  about  to 
take  place  in  a  great  measure  vanished. 


I 


I 


TIte  Unforeseeti.  1 1  r 

She  drew  herself  more  erect,  and  extended  her  hand  wit!i  a  smile. 
Awdry  tc>ok  the  hand,  and  held  it  in  both  his  own. 

"  How  dehghtful  this  is,  to  be  here  once  more ! "  he  began.  "  Do 
you  know.  Miss  Estcourt,  that,  despite  my  recent  loss,  I  have  been  in 
ihe  seventh  heaven  of  felicity  all  day  !  " 

"  Have  you?"  returned  Claudia,  with  a  coquettish  affectation  of 
simplicity.     "  How  is  that?  " 

"  Need  you  ask  ? "  he  demanded,  pressing  her  hand  and  smiling 
down  into  her  face.  "  Did  you  not  say  I  might  call  this  after- 
ooon?" 

"  To  be  st]re,  I  did.  But  I  did  not  mean  you  to  stand  all  Ihe 
while,  holding  my  hand,"  she  answered,  using  a  little  effort  to  with- 
draw it     "  Please  take  a  seat." 

Awdry  drew  one  opposite  to  where  she  had  placed  herself  upon 
Ihe  sofa. 

"  Claudia,"  he  resumed,  bending  forward  to  gaie  at  her  with  eyes 
full  of  love,  "dear  Claudia,  don't  trifle  with  me  I  Have  I  not 
cause  to  be  happy?  Did  you  not  give  me  reason  last  night  to  hope 
that  at  last,  just  as  I  had  abandoned  all  expectation  of  it,  ray  long 
devotion,  my  unchanging  and  unchangeable  love  for  you  was  about 
to  meet  with  some  return  ?  " 

Again  a  warm  flush  mounted  to  the  very  roots  of  Claudia's  hair, 
and  her  long  lashes  drooped  over  her  glowing  cheeks,  but  she  made 
no  verbal  reply. 

"  Even  yet,"  he  went  on,  regarding  her  ecstatically,  "  I  can 
hardly  believe  in  this  great  happiness,  it  has  come  upon  me  so 
suddenly.  As  I  told  you  then,  I  was  intending  last  night  to  say 
good-bye  to  you  for  ever,  I  only  accepted  Mrs.  Mainwaring's 
invitation  because  I  knew  you  were  to  be  her  guest  also.  1  wanted 
to  spend  just  one  more  evening  in  your  company," 

"But  you  are  not  leaving  Quebec  so  very  soon,"  broke  in  Claudia. 
"I  thought  it  was  not  to  be  for  several  weeks  yet?" 

"  So  /  thought  last  night,"  he  answered ;  "  but  I  have  had  a  letter 
fliis  morning  which  makes  it  advisable  that  I  should  return  lo  England 
with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  My  sister-in-law,  it  apjiears,  has 
alrcadymoved  into  Maylands,  her  own  jointure-house,  although  I  had 
begged  her  to  remain  at  Clavermere  as  long  as  ever  she  chose.  So 
1  really  ought  now  to  go  at  once  and  look  after  my  affairs."  He 
paused  for  a  second  or  two,  and  then  added,  "  It  will  be  very  hard, 
however,  to  have  lo  do  so  just  now,  if  what  I  hope  be  true,  though, 
in  thai  case,  the  sea,  you  may  be  sure,  shall  not  divide  us  long 
Claudia,  is  it  true  ?  " 


A 


The  Gentlemeais  Magazine. 

Anxious  to  gain  lime,  Claudia  fenced  with  the  question. 
"  Why  did  you  mean  to  say  good-bye  to  me  last  evening,"  she 
asked,   "when  you  were  not   then  intending  to  leave  for  some 
weeks?    Would  you  really  not  have  called  to  bid  papa  and  me  a 
proper  adieu  ? " 

'*  No  ;  I  had  resolved  not  to  do  so,  though  of  course  I  should 
have  taken  an  opportunity  of  seeing  Mr.  Estcourl,"  he  answered. 
"But  you  know  the  reason?  Vou  know  why  I  have  kept  out  of  your 
way  altogether  of  late  ?  You  know  that  you  had  made  me  feel  that 
my  suit  was  hopeless ;  therefore,  loving  you  so  ardently,  dear  Claudia, 
my  only  chance  of  bearing  my  pain  manfully  was,  it  seemed  to  me, 
by  avoiding  your  sweet  presence.  I  can't  understand,"  he  piu^ued, 
"  how  or  why  this  change  has  come  which  makes  me  hope  I  was 
mistaken;  but  I  am  unspeakably  thankful  for  it.  And  ah,  if  you 
knew  how  I  fell  yesterday  in  looking  forward  to  what  I  thought 
would  be  my  last  hours  with  you !  Do  you  remember  this  from 
Henry  IV.  ? — '  Against  ill  chances  men  are  ever  merry,  but  heaviness 
foreruns  the  good  event.'  I  was  'heavy'  enough  yesterday,  in  all 
conscience !  Darling,  tell  me,  am  I  right  to-day  in  anticipating  the 
'good  event'?" 

Cajnain  Awdry  had  gone  on  speaking  longer  than  he  might  have 
done  but  for  Claudia's  very  evident  embarrassment  Now,  however,  he 
paused  for  a  reply.  When  it  did  not  come,  he  leaned  forward,  and, 
laying  his  hand  on  hers,  repeated  the  question  in  a  different  fonn. 
"  Claudia,  do  you  mean  to  refuse  me  again  ? " 
It  was  no  longer  possible  to  put  off  the  crucial  moment.  "I  don't 
know,"  she  stammered,  lifting  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  but  letting  them 
fall  again  beneath  his  ardent  gaze.     "  I  mean,  tliat  depends — I  don't 

know  yet  whether  you "  she  stopped  short. 

"  But  surely,"  he  persisted,  paying  more  heed  to  her  manner  than 
her  words,  "  surely  there  is  some  change  in  your  feelings  towards 
me?" 

"  No,  there  is  not,"  the  girl  burst  forth  with  sudden  energy. 
"There  is  no  change  in  my  feelings,  Douglas" — she  looked  hiro 
straight  in  the  face  now,  and  pronounced  his  Christian  name  with 
that  desperate,  spasmodic  kind  of  courage  to  which  naturally  timorous 
people  are  sometimes  prone.  "  Douglas,  whatever  happens,  what- 
ever is  the  result  of  this  interview,  I  must  tel!  you  this  now.  I  love 
you  1  I  love  you  as  much  as  you  love  me  !  I  have  loved  you  almost 
ever  since  I  first  saw  you." 

"  Claudia ! "  Captain  Awdry's  exultant  joy  at  this  acknowledgment 
was  quite  equalled  by  his  astonishment.   "  Bui  why,  why,  then,  would 


BjDti 

die 

pn 

"1 


y/ifr  Unforeseen.  1 1 3 

you   never  listen   lo  me  ?    ^^'hy   have  you  driven   me  to  actual 
despaif  P" 

"Because  I  was  obliged \a  do  it." 

"  Obliged  !  "  he  echoed.     "  How  ? " 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you,"  she  answered,  faltering  again,  ss  her 
courage  began  to  ooze  away.  "  But  it  will  be  very  hard  to  explain. 
It — it  was  a  secret" 

Unconsciously  Awdry  loosened  his  grasp  of  her  hand.  For  a 
womaa  to  liave  a  secret,  to  be  concerned  in  a  mystery,  was  an 
abomination  to  him.  Strictly  virtuous  and  slraightfonvard  himself, 
he  held  most  fastidious  and  exalted  notions  as  to  the  purity,  the 
tTDlh,  the  moral  guilelessness  of  the  other  sex.  A  few  moments' 
Mudy.  however,  of  the  sweet  youthful  face  opposite  to  him,  covered 
with  those  modest-seeming  blushes,  restored  the  young  man's  equa. 
nunity. 

"  Dear  Claudia,"  he  said,  speaking  very  softly,  "  whatever  your 
lecret  may  be,  it  is,  I  am  convinced,  a  very  innocent  one ;  but  please 
lei  me  hear  it." 

"  You  won't  think  it  innocent,  I  am  afraid,  when  you  have  heard 
h,"  rejoined  Claudia.  "  I  was  obliged  to  refuse  you  before,  because — 
rause  I  could  not  listen  honourably — because  there  was  an  obstacle 
the  way." 

I  don't  understand,"  he  observed.  "  Your  father,  Mr.  Estcourt, 
did  not  object ;  in  fact,  I  know  he  was  willing  to  encourage  ray 
proposal,  and  you  have  acknowledged  now  that  you  loved  me. 
What,  then,  could  the  obstacle  be  ? " 

It  was  not  of  my  father's  making,  it  was  of  my  own,     I — I  had 
lolher  tie." 

Another  tie  ! "  Again  he  repeated  her  words  in  his  surprise. 
"  You  do  not  mean  that  you  have  been  engaged  ?" 

"  No,    it    is    something    worse    th.m    that,"    she    blurted    out 
desperately.     Captain  Awdry  left  loose  of  her  hand  entirely  now, 
id  sat  straight  up  in  his  chair. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  exclaimed,  "wait  a  moment." 

Startled  by  the  change  in  his  voice,  Claudia  looked  up,  to  be  still 
more  startled  by  the  change  in  her  lover's  face.  With  that  strange, 
hard,  almost  repellent  expression,  she  scarcely  knew  it.  Obeying  his 
request,  however,  she  waited  a  moment,  several  moments,  and  that 
pause  proved  fatal  to  her  resolution  of  telling  the  exact  truth. 

"I  mean,"  she  interposed  at  length,  "that  it  was  worse  than 
being  engaged  in  an  ordinary  way,  because  it  was  without  my  father's 


n  i 


Tlie  Gcjitlmmn's  Magazine. 

"  Oh  I  "  Awdry  uttered  the  interjection  in  the  manner  of  a  grool), 
but  there  was  something  of  rehef  in  his  air.  "  Mr.  Estcourt  knew  of 
it,  though,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"No,"  she  returned.  "No  one  knew  of  it  excepting  Ella 
Thome." 

"I  am  dreadfully  puzzled,"  protested  Awdry  after  a  brief 
silence,  which  had  followed  this  statement.     "I  have  known  you 

ir  since  you  returned  home  from  school,  from  Montreal.  I  have 
watched  you  with  eyes  sharpened  by  love,  but  I  have  never  seen  you 
give  the  slightest  encouragement  to  any  fellow." 

r  have  encouraged  any  one,"  she  affirmed. 

"  But  how  am  I  to  comprehend,  then,  what  you  have  told  nie  ?  " 
he  demanded.  "  I  know,  of  course,  that  every  man  who  sees  you  must 
admire  you — how  could  he  help  it  ?  But  I  know  also  that  Carter  and 
Freemantle  have  iried  their  fates  with  no  more  success  than  myself. 
Indeed  it  was  the  conviction  that,  at  any  rale,  you  preferred  me  to 
them— that,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  you  did  not  prefer  any  one  else — 
that  kept  me  resolute  through  all  these  years  to  win  you  if  I  could. 
Claudia,  will  you  tell  me  this  man's  name  ?  " 

"  He  is  no  one  whom  you  have  ever  seen,  nor  whom  my  father 
has  ever  seen,"  rejoined  Claudia  in  a  shaking  voice.  "  He  does  not 
live  in  Quebec" 

There  was  another  pause.  Captain  Awdry's  face  had  grown 
ashen  pale,  and  his  hands  grasped  each  otlier  with  a  force  that  made 
the  muscles  of  his  wrists  rise  like  cords. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  am  suffering  agonies?"  he  asked  presently. 
"  For  God's  sake.  Miss  Estcourt,  tell  me  ali,  now  that  you  have  toid 
me  so  much  1  ' 

"  Ves,  I  will,"  she  assented  ;  "  I  will  tell  you  everything — all  the 
story.  But,  please  don't  ask  me  any  questions,  1— I  hate  the 
thought  of  the  whole  thing.  I  want  to  tell  it  as  quickly  as  possible, 
in  a  few  words." 

Awdry  bowed.     "  I  shall  not  interrupt  you,  "  he  said. 


Chapter  Vlf. 
MISS  estcourt's  stc 


possiDie,    I 


But  even  yet  Miss  Estcourt  seemed  to  find  some  difficulty  in 
coming  to  the  point  After  giving  his  promise  not  to  interrupt. 
Captain  Awdry  had  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and,  with  his  aims  folded 
across  bjs  chest,  he  ivas  now  regarding  ber  in  stem  and  anxious 


I 


I 


The  Unforeseen. 

tilence  Unless  broken  at  once,  Claudia  felt  that  this  silence  would 
become  terrible  to  her.  She  had  pledged  herself  to  tell  her  story, 
and  Uie  story,  in  some  sort,  must  be  told. 

Twice  she  cleared  her  throat  nervously.  Then,  with  an  effort 
ahicb  caused  the  colour  to  come  and  go  painfully  m  her  delicate 
bee,  she  began. 

"  You  know.  Captain  Awdry,  that  I  was  at  school  in 
Montieal?  1  was  there  for  the  last  two  years  before  my  school- 
!ife  ended  Mrs.  Campion,  the  principal  of  the  establishment,  is 
my  father's  cousin,  and  I  was  sent  to  her  very  shortly  after  poor 
mother's  death.  Father,  I  know,  greatly  disliked  my  being  away 
from  him  ;  but  lie  let  me  go  because  ihe  school  was  a  good  one,  and 
because,  I  suppose,  he  wanted  to  help  his  relative,  and  for  another 
reason  more  important  stilL  This  was,  that  he  had  to  be  away  in 
England  very  frequently  about  that  time  on  business,  for  it  was  just 
then  that  Mr.  Tildes  and  he  entered  into  partnership  and  began  the 
shipbuilding  there.  On  one  occasion  father  had  to  go  to  London  in 
my  holida)-s  (they  were  my  last  holidays),  and  he  made  arrangements 
that  I  should  remain  during  them  under  Mrs.  Campion's  charge.  ^Ve 
were  not  to  stay  in  Montreal,  however.  It  wasdccided  that  we  were  to 
visit  the  springs  at  Saratoga,  and  Ella  Thome  was  to  go  with  us.  For 
Ella,  to  my  great  delight,  had  to  spend  her  holidays  also  under  Mrs. 
Campion's  care.  She  could  not  return  home  to  Kingston,  at  least 
it  was  thought  wiser  that  she  should  not  do  so,  because  her  two 
younger  sisters  were  only  just  recovering  from  an  infectious  fever. 
We  were  in  great  glee,  both  of  us,  about  that  trip  to  Saratoga,  but, 
unluckily  for  me,  it  never  took  place.  On  the  very  day  before  we 
were  to  start  Mrs.  Campion  fell  and  broke  her  leg." 

At  this  juncture  Claudia  paused  to  glance  at  her  lover's  face. 
But  the  latter,  who  was  biting  his  under-lip  in  deep  impatience  of  what 
appearedtohimalong,unnecessary  preamble  to  the  facts  he  so  wished 
to  arrive  at,  merely  bowed  his  head. 

Once  more  the  crimson  tide  rose  and  fell,  a  visible  sign  of 
emotion  ;  but  Claudia  resumed  her  narrative  with  simulated  lightness 
of  tone. 

"  Owing  to  that  tiresome  accident,  we  were  compelled  to  remain 
at  the  school.  The  governesses,  of  course,  were  gone  home  for  their 
holidays,  and  nearly  all  the  servants,  too,  had  been  allowed  leave  of 
absence.  There  was  absolutely  no  one  to  look  after  Ella  and  me, 
or  to  take  us  for  a  walk.  So  we  were  ordered  not  to  quit  the 
grotmds,  which  were  rather  extensive,  for  the  house  stood  quite  out- 
Bde  the  town.     But  one  day  we  disobeyed  Vhis  otdw.    \V^  \\a.ti., 


W    ii6 


TAe  Gentleman's  Mogasnm. 


both  of  us,  a  great  liking  for  the  docks,  and  loved  to  see  the  vessels 
there  loading  and  unloading.  Well,  we  kept  talking  about  it  and 
wishing  for  it,  until,  at  last,  just  after  our  early  breakfast  one  morning, 
we  made  up  our  minds  to  slip  out  at  the  garden  gate  and  pay  b  visit 
to  the  docks.  Of  course,  being  two  years  the  elder,  I  was  the  more  to 
blame  on  the  score  of  this  disobedience.  But  1  was  punished  enough 
for  it — it  nearly  cost  me  my  life.  It  would  have  cost  it  quite  but  for 
him," 

Captain  Awdry  unfolded  his  arms,  and  gave  vent  to  an  inaitiailate 
ejaculation  expressive  both  of  dismay  and  inquiry,  But  in  pursuance 
of  his  promise,  he  offered  no  further  interruption. 

"  We  were  watching  a  vessel  being  laden  with  corn,  and  I  know  I 
was  standing  very  near  the  edge  of  the  parapet,  when  all  at  once  some- 
thing caught  myfeet  (Ella  told  me  afterwards  that  it  was  a  chain  some 
sailors  were  moving),  and  the  next  moment  I  was  in  the  river.  You 
know  what  that  means,  don't  you?  /  knew  very  well  the  dangers  of  that 
swift  tide  and  its  hidden  currents,  and  !  gave  myself  up  to  death.  I 
don't  think  I  uttered  a  sound,  for  I  believe  that  I  lost  consciousness 
almost  immediately  through  the  shock  and  horror.  At  all  events,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  recall  anything  that  happened  between  one 
moment  when  I  felt  the  cold  waters  closing  over  my  head,  and 
another  when  I  realised  that  I  was  again  upon  dry  land  and  clinging 
with  all  my  force  to  some  one  who  I  knew  must  have  saved  me." 

Captain  Awdry  had  ceased  by  this  time  to  bite  his  lips.  The 
story  had  reached  for  him  now  a  point  of  interest  which  swallowed 
up  his  impatience  and  induced  other  and  softer  emotions.  Still  he 
otTered  no  comment,  except  by  murmuring  some  words  under  his 
breath  which  sounded  like,  "Poor  child  !     Thank  God  !" 

"  I  did  not  look,  at  first,  what  the  man  was  like  who  had  saved 
me,"  pursued  Claudia,  struggling  against  an  impulse  to  burst  into 
tears  of  self-pity  at  the  recollection  of  her  danger,  "  but  I  felt  as 
though  I  dared  not  let  go  my  hold  of  him.  And  very  soon  I  became 
aware  that  he  was  carrying  me  through  a  crowd  which  had  gathered 
about  us,  and  that  Ella  was  clinging  to  one  of  my  hands,  crying 
piteously.  Nest  thing,  we  were  in  a  caltche  or  some  kind  of  vehicle, 
and  he  was  with  us,  Ella  had  given  the  address,  and  ive  were 
driving  towards  the  school.  But  before  we  got  there  both  of  us  were 
so  far  recovered  as  to  know  that  we  must  try  to  hide  this  dreadful 
escapade,  if  we  could,  from  Mrs.  Campion's  knowledge.  The  driver, 
therefore,  was  bidden  to  stop  at  some  little  distance,  and  Ella  and  I 
slipped  back  into  the  grounds  through  an  orchard  which  could  not  be 
seen  from  the  house.    He,  too,  went  in  with  us  to  the  orchard  for  s 


I 


The  Uit/oresmi.  \\^ 

few  minutes,  and  before  he  left  us  we  had  agreed  to  meet  liim  there 
igain  in  the  evening,  in  order  to  let  him  know  whether  I  was  any 
the  worse  for  my  terrible  bath. 

"In  a  physical  sense,  I  was  none  the  worse  for  it.  I  neither  took 
cold  nor  suffered  in  any  other  way  bodily.  But  it  was  a  long  time 
before  I  got  over  the  mental  strain  it  induced.  Every  night  I  had 
the  most  frightful  dreams,  and  all  day  I  was  haunted  by  a  sense  of 
the  danger  I  had  ran.  Even  yet,  I  always  shudder  when  I  think  of 
it  So  you  may  imderstand,  Caplain  Awdry,  that  I  must  have  felt 
grateful — more  than  grateful— to  my  rescuer." 

"  I  ace !  I  begin  to  see  the  light !  "  cried  Awdry,  his  eyes 
flashing  and  his  nostrils  quivering  with  a  new  kind  of  e.tcitement. 
"That  scoundrel,  whoever  he  was,  presumed  upon  his  deed.  And 
yon,  my  poor  inexperienced  child,  you  let  yourself  be  drawn  into 
some  kind  of  entanglement  through  your  natural  sense  of  obligation 
—your  too  e.tcessive  gratitude?  I  begin  to  understand  I  But  go 
on,"  he  urged  gently.     "  Go  on,  please,  and  tell  me  all." 

Once  again  Claudia  Estcourt  changed  colour.  A  brief  war  of 
contending  impulses  went  on  within  her,  and  she  trembled  from  head 
to  foot.     But  the  issue  of  the  conflict  was  soon  decided. 

"No,  no,"  she  exclaimed;  "you  are  wrong  in  calling  him  a 
scoundrel  Indeed,  indeed  he  was  not  that !  And  he  never  pre- 
sumed in  the  least  upon  what  he  had  done,  though,  of  course,  he 
had  risked  his  own  life  to  save  mine.  He  would  scarcely  even  let 
me  thank  him  properly,  and  after  the  first  lime  or  two  that  we  met 
he  appeared  to  dislike  any  allusion  to  the  subject  at  all.  I  must  do 
him  that  justice  at  least ;  I  am  sure  he  had  a  generous  nature." 

"Ah,  you  have  been  in  love  with  the  fellow  I  Perhaps  are  so 
Still  ?  "  interjected  Awdry,  moved  by  a  sudden  jealousy. 

Claudia  raised  her  wistful  eyes,  with  a  grave  look  in  them. 

"  He  is  dead,"  she  answered.  "  He  died  about  a  fortnight  ago. 
And  I  don't  think  I  ei'er  loved  him— or  if  I  did,  I  have  grown  to 
hate  him  so  much  since  that  I  cannot  realise  how  differently  I  once 
■fclL"  She  drew  a  long  breath,  then  went  on,  "  But  I  must  tell  you 
ihe  rest  more  quickly.  He  came  again  and  again.  Eila  and  I  met 
him  in  the  orchard  to  talk  over  our  common  adventure.  At  first 
we  did  not  think  of  those  secret  meetings  as  being  in  any  way 
imprudent  or  wrong,  though  they  were  held  with  a  young  man  and 
ft  handsome  one.  And  by-and-by,  when  we  did  begin  to  recognise 
this,  we  were  carried  away  by  the  excitement  and  romance  of  the 
Wng.  Poor  Ella  was  not  fifteen,  which  must  be  her  excuse  ;  whilst, 
for  my  part,  I  was  a  school-girl,  scarcely  seventeen,  and  he  was  my 


i 


I 


1 1 8  The  GmtUmatis  Magazine. 

first  lover.  He  did  seem  to  be  very  desperately  in  love  with  me,  and 
I  know  he  was  so.  He  had  saved  my  life,  and  I,  of  course,  was 
under  the  strongest  obligation  to  him.  Besides,  his  appearance  was 
attractive,  and — and  there  was  a  mystery  about  him " 

"  Of  that  I  have  no  doubt,"  sneered  the  listener,  forgetful  of  his 
promise  not  to  interrupt  "  May  I  ask  how  soon  the  love-making 
b;gan  ?  and  whether  this  interesting  adventurer  had  a  name?" 

"Not  if  you  ask  in  that  tone,  Captain  Awdry,"  retorted  the  girl 
with  dignity.  "  Recollect,  you  have  no  claim  upon  me  that  I  should 
give  you  this  confidence." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  1  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times  !  " 
apologised  the  young  man.  "  I  had,  indeed,  no  right  to  assume  that 
lone.  But  I  think  there  is  exane  for  me,  although  I  will  not  plead 
that  now." 

In  her  heart,  and  with  her  eyes,  Claudia  acknowledged  that  there 
was  excuse  for  him — the  excuse  of  his  past  faithful  love,  and  of  the 
present  pain  he  was  so  evidently  enduring. 

"The  gentleman's  name,"  she  resumed  in  a  changed,  almost 
humble,  voice,  "  was  Stephens  ^Hubert  Henry  Stephens.  He  was  an 
Englishman,  about  twenty-three  years  of  age,  and,  as  I  have  said,  very 
good-looking.  His  manners  were  those  of  a  gentleman,  and  I  am 
certain  that  he  was  a  gentleman  by  birth.  He  never  told  me  anything, 
however,  about  his  family,  excepting  that  he  had  quarrelled  with 
them,  and  that  he  had  left  his  home  for  ever.  He  had  been  in 
America,  in  difi'erent  parts,  for  nearly  two  years,  and,  having  no  money, 
and  only — until  shortly  before  I  knew  him — chance  employment,  he 
had  been  more  than  once  upon  the  verge  of  starvation." 

"Good  God  !  Claudia,  was  I  not  tight  in  calling  the  fellow  an 
adventurer  ?  " 

"I  don't  know — no,  no  ;  I  don't  think  you  were,"  she  amended. 
"  I  do  not  believe— in  fact,  I  am  sure  that  it  was  not  for  money 
that  he  wished  to — to  secure  me.  He  had  been  watching  me 
— looking  at  my  face  " — the  seriousness  of  the  occasion  was  so 
great  that  Claudia  spoke  thus  without  a  blush—"  for  fully  five 
minutes  before  I  fell  into  the  river,  and  he  swore,  over  and  over 
again,  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  me  at  first  sight,  even  before 
he  had  jumped  in  to  save  me.  Captain  Awdry,  for  three  years  I 
have  positively  detested  this  m.in  because  of  the  trouble,  the  deceit, 
the  wretched  harrowing  anxiety  he  has  brought  upon  me ;  but  I 
believe  that  he  loved  me.     I  shall  always  believe  that." 

"  May  I  speak  ?  "  demanded  Awdry,  eagerly.     "  May  I  say 
thing?" 


J 


or  p 


The  Unforeseen. 

No,  no ;  please  wait ;  I  have  nearly  finished.  All  through  ihose 
,ays  he  came  every  day.  His  person,  his  visits,  his  past  history, 
leeuied  shrouded  ia  romance.  That  romance  made  up  a  large 
of  his  attraction  for  nie  ;  and  so  the  end  of  it  was,  that  I  fancied 
1  ioved  him,  and  we  were — we  became  engaged,  secretly.  The 
reason  ihai  he  pursuaded  me  to  —  to  the  secresy  was  that  he 
feared  my  father  would  not  consider  his  position  a  suf^ciently  good 
He  had  a  position  then,  and  he  had  great  hopes  that  it  might, 
time,  become  a  good  one.  But— now  I  have  come  to  a  very 
Itched  part  of  my  story — we  had  only  been  [Claudia  coughed  with 
■OU5  suddenness]— been  engaged  about  a  week  when  lie  was 
led  out  of  his  situation  in  a  dreadful  way.  First,  though,  let  me 
you  how  he  came  to  get  the  situation.  He  had  been  trying  for  a 
long  time— ever  since  he  had  come  from  England^to  find  something 
to  do  in  different  parts  of  the  Stales  ;  but  having  been  brought  up  to 
no  occupation — he  had  been  to  Cambridge,  however,  he  told  me 
once,  and  was  a  wrangler — he  had  failed  there.  Then  he  had  come 
tu  Canada  in  the  hope  of  doing  better,  but  had  done  even  worse,  and 
had  been  reduced  at  last  so  low  that  he  had  become  a  sort  of  porter, 
or  packer,  or  something  of  that  sort  in  a  warehouse  in  Montreal.  It 
a  warehouse  that  siiipped  things  to  foreign  countries,"  she 
[plained  lucidly,  "  and  they  kept  a  foreign  correspondent  Well, 
'one  day  tliis  foreign  correspondent  was  taken  suddenly  ill,  and  no 
one  couid  be  found  to  do  his  work,  till  Hubert,  happening  to  hear  of 
it,  said  he  understood  French,  and  German,  and  Spanish,  and  Itahan, 
and  that  iu  could  write  the  letters.  They  allowed  him  to  try,"  she 
went  on  hurriedly,  "  and  it  turned  out  that  he  had  spoken  the  truth 
about  the  languages,  and  also  that  he  could  manage  the  business  very 
well.  It  was  a  paralytic  stroke  that  had  seized  the  other  man,  and 
as  he  did  not  get  better  the  post  was,  by-and-by,  offered  to 
Mr.  Stephens,  together  with  a  very  good  salary.  He  was  in  great 
spirits  about  this,  and  used  lo  say  often  that  his  luck  had  now  turned, 
and  that  he  meant  to  carve  out  a  fortune  for  himself  and  become  a 
millionaire  for  my  sake.  This  was  how  things  were  when  first  we 
met,  and  it  was  through  his  having  gone  down  to  the  dock  on  some 
business  for  the  firm  that  he  was  there  to  save  me." 

Breathless  with  rapid  speaking,  Miss  Estcourt  again  paused. 
"Why,"  she  asked  herself  during  that  pause,  "had  she  been  pouring 
out  all  this  detail?  What  was  urging  her  to  tell  so  much  of  the 
truth,  when  she  did  not  mean  to  tell  it  all — when  she  meant  lo 
keep  hack   the  one  chief  thing— the  core  and  pivot  of  the  whole 


I 


The  GetUle/nan's  Magazine. 

story  ?  "  A  solution  of  the  problem  might,  perhaps,  have  been  easy 
enough,  but  at  present  Claudia  did  not  wait  to  seek  it. 

"  As  I  told  you,  however,  this  situation,  that  he  hoped  so  much 
from,  was  lost  in  a  miserable  way,"  she  recommenced.  "  Some  money 
— a  hundred  dollars  in  notes — was  missed  one  morning  from  a  private 
office,  where  one  of  the  partners  had  laid  it  down.  Mr.  Stephens,  it 
was  proved,  had  been  in  that  office,  and  he  was  suspected  of  having 
stolen  the  money.  Tliey  did  not  know  him,  you  see,  and  he  could 
give  no  references  as  to  character,  or,  at  least,  he  would  not  do.  All 
the  other  clerks  and  employes  had  been  in  the  place  some  time. 
He  was  the  only  stranger.  And  so  (though  they  would  not  prosecute, 
because  they  had  nothing  but  suspicion  to  go  upon)  the  partners 
tui'ned  him  o(T  ignominiousiy.  After  that,  he  went  down,  down, 
down,"  continued  the  girl,  with  a  gesture  of  irritation  and  repulsion. 
"  He  could  get  nothing  to  do,  nothing  suitable.  At  last,  I  believe 
he  gave  up  all  hope  of  success  in  life,  and  he  died  a  fortnight  ago  in 
a  settlement  of  I'Vench  peasants,  away  up  in  the  backwoods.  One 
of  the  settlers  came,  at  his  wish,  to  tell  me  about  his  death.  But 
before  that  I  had  iieard  nothing  of  him  for  nearly  a  year.  And  now, 
now,  at  length,  I  am  free ! " 

"  And  that  is  all  ?  " 

Miss  Estcourt  nodded  an  affirmative. 

"  Claudia,  I  must,  I  must  ask  you  a  question.  Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  that  you  have  considered  yourself  bound  to  that  man  through 
all  these  four  years,  simply  because  as  a  school-girl  not  seventeen 
you  had  given  him  a  promise— a  promise,  I  suppose,  of  marriage?" 

"Yes,"  faltered  Claudia; "yes,  I  have  always  considered  myself 
bound  to  him." 

"  Is  it  possible !  And  yet  you  have  detested  this  imaginary  tie, 
you  say,  almost  from  the  beginning?  You  have  learned,  also,  to  love 
some  one  else^to  love  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  assented  again. 

Suddenly  Captain  Awdry  sank  on  his  knifes,  and  took  the  girl's 
hands  reverently.  "  I  am  amazed ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  a  woman's  sense  of  honour  and  loyalty  was  not  equal  to  that 
of  a  man.  But  here  is  a  contradiction,  indeed,  of  such  an  aspersion ! 
What  man  could  have  showed  more  punctilious  fidelity  to  his  word, 
and  against  such  temptations  to  a  breach  of  it !  Dear  Claudia,  your 
notions  of  constancy — pardon  me  saying  it — are  absurdly  high-strung, 
and  they  have  led  you  into  a  great  mistake.  They  have  been  the 
cause  of  unhiippiness  to  yourself,  and  of  terrible  suffering  to  me. 
Also — pardon  me   again — they  have    warped    your  judgment    in 


T!u  Unforeseen. 

reference  to  the  duly  which  you  owed  to  your  father,  in  that  you 
allowed  yourself  to  be  persuaded  to  keep  your  supposed  engagement 
a  secret  from  hiro.  You  have  been  very,  very  foolish,  dearest  ;  but 
it  has  all  happened  through  your  ignorance  of  the  world,  your 
unsophisticated  innocence.  That  I  sec  dearly.  And  I  thank  you 
for  your  candour  in  telling  me  all  this  at  last,  Claudia,  though,  oh, 
oh,  that  you  told  it  me  earlier!"  He  stooped  as  he  spoke  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  her  hand. 

Claudia  burst  into  tears,  half  of  relief,  and  half  of  troubled 
surprise  at  this  turn  of  affairs.  "  Then  you  arc  not  very  dreadfully 
shocked  with  me  ?  "  she  faltered.     "  You  still  love  me  ?  " 

In  an  instant  Awdrj-  was  by  her  side  on  the  sofa,  and  she  was  in 
his  atms.     "  Sfitl  love  you  I "  he  murmured.    "  My  darling,  did  you 
think  my  love  could  be  slain  so  easily  as  that?    Do  you  believe 
that  trae  love  ever  dies  ?  7  do  not    As  the  old  tines  run,  you  know-- 
Piiy,  how  comes  loi'c? 
It  comes  unsought,  unsent, 
I  Pmy.  ho"  goes  love  ? 

I  Thai  was  not  love  that  went. 

No,  that  was  not  love  of  yours,  Claudia,  for  ray  unknown  rival, 
because  it '  went.'  And,  dearest,  I  have  a  little  secret  of  my  own  to 
tell  you.  Shall  I  tell  it  you  now,  or  will  you  first  promise  to  be  my 
wife?  Ah  !  I  don't  need  the  promise,  do  I  ?  You  have  confessed 
that  you  love  me.     We  understand  each  other,  at  last ! " 

Whether  they  did,  in  truth,  understand  each  other  or  not,  it  is 
certain  that  for  a  brief  half  hour  the  lovers  became  supremely  happy. 
In  the  interchange  of  mutual  assurances  of  undying  affection  ihey 
almost  forgot  the  revelation  just  made  and  listened  to.  Not  entirely, 
however  ;  the  imdercunent  of  recollection  was  there  all  the  time. 
Thbaftcmoon'sconversationhad  been  too  exciting  and  too  momentous 
— though  in  a  ditferent  way  to  each— to  be  easily  erased  from  their 
memories. 

"  Claudia,  dear,"  remarked  Awdry,  recurring  presently  to  the 
subject  of  it  (although  not  before  he  had  related  a  certain  episode  in 
his  own  history,  lo  which  wc  may  have  occasion  to  refer  hereafter), — 
"  Claudia,  dear,  I  am  afraid  the  thought  of  that  fellow  may  often  be 
a  torture  to  me.  Not  that  I  shall  ever  allow  myself  to  blame  you 
more  than  I  have  already  done-^that  is,  for  keeping  silence  about  the 
childish  scrape  you  had  got  into,  that  preposterous  promise  which  your 
scrupulous  sense  of  honour  made  you  look  upon  as  binding.  No,  it 
is  tiaxyoa  1  blame,  but  that  miscreant,  that  impostor,  that  adventurer  1 
DaiUi^  il  is  no  use  protesting  that  he  was  not  what  I  call  htm.    All 

VOL.  CCLVllt.      HO.  iSiO,  ^ 


I 


Tlu  GentUmatis  Magazine. 

you  have  told  me  about  hiin  goestoprove  it— hisbeingamanofsome 
attainments,  and  of  respectable  appearance  and  manners,  yci  in  poverty, 
and  with  no  settled  abode  or  employment,  and  again,  his  silence  about 
his  relatives  and  past  history.  Believe  me,  it  is  only  your  ignorance 
of  the  world  and  its  wickedness  that  prevents  your  taking  my 
view  of  the  fellow.  He  was  a  bad  lot,  and  in  my  own  mind  I 
have  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  he  really  did  take  that  money  from 
the  warehouse." 

"  Oh,  Douglas,  please  do  not  say  any  more  ! "  entreated  Claudia. 
"Think  what  you  like,  I  will  not  contradict  your  opinion.  Only  let 
us  try  to  forget  the  whole  aCTair.  Let  us  agree  never,  never,  to  speak 
of  it  again." 

Captain  Awdry  reflected  an  instant  "  Very  well,"  he  assented  ; 
"  we  ivil!  make  a  compact  of  silence  after  to-day.  But  you  must  just 
satisfy  my  curiosity  on  one  other  point,  Claudia — I  have  a  right 
to  ask  questions  now,  have  I  not?  When  did  you  see  this  Stephens 
last,  dear,  and  how  has  your  connection  with  him  been  kept  up  ?  " 

"  I  have  scarcely  seen  him  at  all  since  I  left  school,"  answered 
Claudia ;  "  I  only  stayed  six  months  with  Mrs.  Campion  after  those 
holidays,  then  I  retimied  home ;  but  I  went  away  again  shortly  after- 
wards on  a  visit— a  visit  to  Ella  Thome.  I  saw  him  then  once  or 
twice." 

"  Ah,  I  remember !  You  left  home  almost  immediately  after  I 
had  first  been  introduced  to  you,  and  you  were  away  nearly  three 
months  1     I  recollect  thinking  you  would  never  come  back." 

Claudia  reddened  tmaccountably.  "  Yes,  \-~\  did  slay  a  long 
time,  I  know.  But  Ella  and  I  have  always  been  such  good 
friends." 

"  And  she  helped  you  to  meet  that  fellow  again  ?  Well,  I  don't 
thank  her  for  that,  Claudia,  at  any  rate.  So  he  was  at  Kingston 
then?" 

"  No— >■«,  I  mean.  But — but  that  was  not  quite  the  last  time 
1  saw  him,"J  pursued  Claudia,  hurriedly.  "  He  came  here  to 
Quebec  once.  I  happened  to  be  looking  out  of  the  window  one 
moonlight  night,  and  I  saw  him  standing  before  the  house.  I  was 
awfully  angrj",  and  I  went  out  to  speak  to  him,  and  let  him  know 
pretty  plainly  what  I  felt.  He  said,  however,  that  he  had  not  meant 
to  compromise  me  in  any  way  by  coming  there — that  he  had  only 
wanted  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  me  without  being  seen  himself.  I 
don't  know  where  he  was  living  at  the  time,  or  what  he  was  doing, 
but  he  declared  he  had  walked  nearly  a  hundred  miles  just  for 
that.     But  when  he  saw  how  annoyed  I  was,  he  promised  not  to 


I 


ebtmde  upon  roe  again,  unless  he  could  do  so  under  very  different 
circumst^mces.  I  don't  know  what  he  expected  could  make  things 
Tcry  different,  but  his  saying  that  always  kept  me  a  little  nervous 
lest  he  should  appear  again.  But  my  fears  proved  groundless.  I 
ha^'c  never  seen  hira  since.  We  have  written  to  each  other,  however, 
though  not  often." 

"And  in  his  letters,  I  suppose,  he  kept  up  that  fiction  of  an  en- 
gagement? Really,  in  many  ways,  the  man's  conduct,  as  you  describe 
it,  appears  inexplicable.  But  you  may  rest  assured  that  he  has 
been  actuated  throughout  by  some  sinister  motive.  Probably  he  was 
hoping  for  your  father's  death — intending  tlien  to  force  his  pretended 
claims  upon  you,  though  not  daring,  with  your  friends  around  you, 
to  bring  thera  forft-ard.  Gracious  heaven  !  who  can  tell  wfial  the 
fellow  meant?  But,  my  darling,  you  have  had  a  fortunate  escape. 
Things  might  have  been  infinitely  worse.  Supposing  that,  instead  ol 
playing  upon  your  gratitude,  taking  advantage  of  your  youth  and 
innocence,  as  he  did,  by  drawing  you  into  a  secret  engagement,  he 
had  pereuaded  you  into  a  secret  marriage.  What  a  frightful  thing  that 
would  have  been  1  Then,  indeed,  the  purity  and  sweetness  of  my 
lily  would  have  been  lost  for  ever.  Then — oh,  Claudia,  Claudia,  you 
are  fainting?" 

"  No,  no,  I  am  not,"  she  gasped.  "  I  am  not  going  to  faint,  but 
all  this  has  been  too  much  for  me.  I — I  should  like  to  be  alone. 
Please  leave  me,  Douglas — leave  me  now  !  " 

"  My  darling,  I  have  been  cruel  to  press  the  subject  so  much, 
and  to  make  such  dreadful  and  impossible  suggestions,"  he  exclaimed 
tenderly.  "  Forgive  me,  Claudia.  Yes,  I  will  go — I  wU  leave  you 
for  the  present.  But,  remember,  we  have  buried  the  hatchet  This 
wretched  topic  shall  never  be  revived  again  to  cause  disturbance 
between  us,  or  to  mar  our  happiness.  One  kiss,  dear,  in  token  of 
pardon,  and  I  am  gone.  But  only  until  this  evening.  I  shall  return 
in  the  evening,  Claudia,  to  see  your  father." 


Chapter  VIII. 

"you  will  not  betray  me?" 

After  her  lover's  departure  Claudia  Estcourt  went  straight  to  her 

own  room,  and,  when  there,  straight  to  her  mirror.     In  front  of  the 

glass  she  stood  and  surveyed  herself.     How  pale  she  looked,  but 

how  beautiful  I — even  despite  those  dark  circles  •wlwcVi  nvtiWaX  ^ufci 


The  Genileniafis  Magazine. 

and  exhaustion  had  drawn  around  her  eyes.  How  youthful,  too,  and 
how — yes,  how  innocent ! 

That  was  the  term  which  he  had  used — he,  the  man  to  whom  she 
had  just  affianced  herself.  In  that  one  pleasant  interlude  in  their 
late  conference — those  delightful  moments  after  she  had  promised  to 
be  his  wife^he  had  broken  out  into  lover's  rhapsodies  about  her 
"sweet  fragihty  of  appearance."  He  had  declared  that  she  ought  to 
have  a  name  less  stately,  less  regal  than  Claudia,  And  then  he  had 
gone  on,  somewhat  inconsistently,  to  protest  that  he  would  not  have 
her  name  altered  if  he  could,  because  it  was  /ler  name — the  one  he 
had  always  known  her  by — that  he  would  not  have  "  that,  or  anything 
else  about  her,  changed  ! " 

Would  he  not  ?  Ah  I  if  he  could  see  beneath  the  lair  surface — 
into  the  heart  that  palpitated  under  that  transparent,  delicately  tinted 
skin — into  the  mind  that  worked  behind  those  liquid  eyes — was  there 
nothing  that  Douglas  Awdry  would  wish  changed  ? 

Claudia  shuddered.  Questions  of  conduct  or  principle  were  not 
familiar  with  this  young  lady.  A  spoiled  darling  of  fortune,  the 
cardinal  rule  of  her  life,  so  far,  had  been  to  seek  her  own  happiness. 

She  had  not  always  been  successful  in  that  search — far  from  it ! 
But  for  all  miscarriage  of  her  projects  or  failure  of  her  hopes  she 
had  been  wont  to  condemn  others  rather  than  herself.  She  was  not 
conceited  (at  least,  no  one  had  ever  accused  her  of  being  so,  for  she 
displayed  none  of  the  petty  affectations  of  the  vain),  but  she  had  a 
vast  respect  for  her  own  personality.  To  think  well  of  herself  she 
had  found  to  be  an  important  factor  of  happiness,  and  she  had 
encouraged  herself  at  all  times  to  think  the  very  best  she  could  of 
herself  In  this  agreeable  task,  also,  she  had  been  aided  by  others. 
As  was  natural,  with  her  beauty,  her  prospective  wealth,  and  her 
general  amiability  of  disposition.  Miss  Estcourl's  ears  had  been  fed 
pretty  liberally  with  the  honeydew  of  flattery. 

Now,  however,  as  she  stood  gazing  at  her  reflection  in  the  glass, 
the  girl  was  being  forced  into  a  painful  self- disclosure.  Rightly  or 
wrongly,  it  struck  home  to  her  conviction  that  there  was  little  beauty 
within  to  correspond  with  that  of  her  outward  aspect.  If  she  could 
be  turned  inside  out  for  the  inspection  of  the  world — for  the  inspec- 
tion of  her  lover — what  then  ?  \\'here  were  those  virtues  that  he 
credited  her  with — that  strict  fidelity,  that  high  sense  of  honour,  that 
resplendent  purity  ?  Figments  of  his  own  imagination  I  What  was 
the  truth?  What  like  was  the  real  Claudia  with  her  superficial 
attractions  scraped  off  ? 

CompeWeA  against  her  will  into  this   moral   revision,   (he  girl 


recognised  herself,  as  in  a  lightning  flash  of  reveUtion,  to  be 
thing  the  very  reverse  of  what  Douglas  Awdry  conceived  her  to  be. 
She  saw  ihai  her  loveliness  was,  indeed, "  skin-deep  " — that  in  feeling 
and  conduct  she  was  disingenuous,  deceitful,  selfish — so  selfish  as  lo 
be  capable  even  of  brutality.  For  had  she  not  acted  with  brutal 
callousness  and  ill-feeling  towards  one  whom  she  knew  ?  And  now 
— what  had  she  done?  Committed  a  fresh  wrong  !  Entered  upon 
a  new  course  of  duplicity  I 

Shuddering  and  conscience- stricken,  Claudia  turned  away,  and 
throwing  herself  face  downwards  on  the  bed,  burst  into  tears  of 
shame  and  misery. 

But  even  as  she  wept  her  mood  changed.  Salutary  self-con- 
demnation began  to  give  way  to  passionate  blame  of  another.  After 
ill,  it  was  his  fault— all  of  it !  It  was  he  and  circumstances — 
circumstances  which  he  ought  lo  have  foreseen — that  had  made  her 
what  she  was.  If  she  had  never  met  him,  she  would  have  been  all 
that  Douglas  Awdiy  thought  her.  Her  moral  deterioration,  so  far 
as  it  existed  lay  at  his  door.  It  was  /le — he — who  had  spoiled  her 
life  I 

Poor  Claudia  !  Thus  the  moment  of  grace  passed  away.  Self- 
reproach  melted  into  self-pity.  The  innate  force  of  her  deep  self- 
love  reasserted  itself.  It  had  been  so  long  her  habit  to  regard  her  own 
moral  deficiencies  through  the  diminishing  end  of  a  telescope,  that 
to  have  been  forced  to  look  at  them  for  a  minute  through  the  opposite 
lens  had  given  her  a  shock.  But  she  had  readjusted  the  instrument 
now,  and  she  was  getting  over  the  shock  a  little.  Her  tears  still 
flowed  freely,  interspersed  with  broken  sobs ;  but  the  fountain  was 
no  longer  poisoned  with  the  bitterness  of  shame  and  self-loathing. 
Tenderness  for  her  own  precious  individuality  had  become  the  girl's 
dominant  emotion. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Etla  Thome,  who  had,  from  her  own 
chamber  adjoining,  been  listening  with  extreme  distress  lo  those  tell- 
tale sounds,  ventured  to  enter  her  friend's  room.  Approaching  the 
bed,  she  put  her  arms  softly  round  Claudia's  quivering  form  ;  but, 
for  a  little  while  she  did  not  speak.  Only  one  explanation  of  this 
demonstrative  giiaf  had  occurred  to  her.  Captain  Awdry's  love  had 
not  stood  the  test  of  learning  poor  Claudia's  secret.  In  her  intense 
sympathy,  Ella  felt  almost  like  a  mother  to  the  suffering  giiL  In 
fact,  although  two  years  her  junior,  it  had  seemed  to  her  for  a  long 
time  that  she  must  be  older  than  Claudia.  The  eldest  of  a  large 
family  of  brothers  and  sisters,  and  the  companion  of  a  sick  mother, 
her  own  nature  had,  she  knew,  developed  rapidly  in  the  year  or  two 


i 


w 

W  126 

^     since  she  had  left 


126  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

since  she  had  left  Mrs.  Campion's  establishment,  whilst  that  of  her 
school -friend  appeared  to  have  stood  still.  And  yet,  how  much 
more  momentous  had  been  Claudia's  experiences  in  life  !  As  she 
knew,  the  slender,  delicate  girl,  sobbing  there  into  her  pillows  with 
all  the  abandonment  of  a  child,  had  been  for  nearly  three  years  a 
mother — for  nearly  four  years  a  wife  ! 

"  Claudia,  darling,"  she  said  at  last,  "  will  you  not  tell  me  what 
has  happened  ?  " 

The  sobs  ceased  suddenly,  but  Claudia  made  no  reply. 

"  Oh  I  I  hope  it  is  not  as  I  am  fearing?  I  hope  you  are  not 
disappointed  i  But,  whatever  has  been  the  result,  I  am  quite,  quite 
sure  that  you  witl  never  regret  in  the  end,  Claudia,  having  told  the 
truth." 

Claudia  writhed  away  from  her  friend's  embrace.  But  in  another 
moment  she  sat  up,  and,  without  looking  at  Ella,  blurted  out — 

"  Douglas  Awdry  and  I  are  engaged." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  How  glad  I  am  ! "  {There  was  no  mistaking  the 
genuineness  of  that  exclamalion.)  "  How  very  glad  I  am  !  Then 
you  were  only  crying,  dear,  because  you  were  feeling  over-WTOught  ? 
Everything  is  really  right?" 

"  It  is  right  that  I  am  going  to  marry  Captain  Awdry,  because  I 
love  him,"  Claudia  rejoined,  still,  however,  avoiding  her  companion's 
gaze. 

"  But — "  Ella  hesitated,  and  her  expression  dunged — "  but  you 
have  told  him  all  ? " 

"  No,  I  have  not.  You  must  know  it  sooner  or  later,  I  suppose, 
Ella,     I  couldn't  and  I  didn't  tell  him  giiiie  all." 

"  What  did  you  keep  back  ?     Not  about  Claude,  surely  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  hush  I  How  loudly  you  speak,  Ella  I  "  Claudia  cast 
an  uneasy  glance  towards  the  door.  "  Captain  Awdry  knows  nothing 
about  the  child.  And  he  never  shall  know,  never  !  I  told  him  how 
I  iiad  first  met  Hubert  Stephens,  and  the  whole  story  of  our  connec- 
tion— everything  excepting  that  I  had  married  him." 

"  Excepting  that  you  had  married  him ! "  echoed  Ella.  "  Why, 
that  was  all  there  was  to  tell !  Oh,  Claudia,  then  you  have  not  kept 
your  promise  ?  You  have  allowed  Captain  Awdry  to  propose  to  you, 
and  you  have  accepted  him  with  your  secret  untold?  " 

"  Yes,  I  liave.  I  have,  because  I  saw  that  if  I  did  tell  him  he 
would  not  ask  me  again.  He  is  so  fastidious  in  his  notions,  so 
exacting,  somehow.  Oh,  Ella,  I  did  mean  to  tell  him  the  whole 
truth,  but  I  couldn't  I    I  really,  really  couldn't ! " 

"And  if  he  should  find  it  out  afterwards,"  demanded  Ella,  sternly, 


I 


"after  you  are  mairied — what  do  you  suppose   the  consequences 
would  be?    Do  you  think  he  would  ever  forgive  you  ?  " 

"  But  he  Kw/V  find  it  out — he  can't  I  Nobody  in  the  world 
knows  about  it  now,  Ella,  but  you  and  myself.  And  you  will  not 
betray  mci*  Ella,"  she  continued,  passionately,  "swear  that  you  will 
not  betray  me.  If  you  don't,  1  will  throw  myself  over  the  battle- 
ments !     I  will  not  live  to  be  disgraced  in  his  eyes !  " 

"Claudia,  Claudia,  you  know  I  will  not  betray  you  I"  cried  her 
friend,  alarmed  by  this  threat.  "  You  know  that  I  have  never 
breathed  a  whisper  of  what  I  have  known  all  these  years,  and  I  shall 
not  do  so  now.  But  oh,  1  would  give  anything  to  have  had  you  act 
differently  1  You  are  going  to  commit  a  great  wrong,  Claudia,  if  you 
cany  out  your  purpose.  And  I  foresee  that  you  are  laying  up  for 
yourself  a  store  of  misery  worse  than  any  you  have  yet  known  !  " 

"  How  unkind  you  are,  Ella  !  "  said  Claudia,  beginning  to  weep 
afresh.  '-When  I  am  in  such  trouble,  it  is  too  bad  of  you  to  croak 
like  that" 

"  !  am  not  unkind,"  rejoined  the  other.  "  And  you  seem  to  for- 
get, Claudia,  that  I  too  have  suffered  through  your  secret.  Ah  I  it 
has  taught  me  a  lesson.  For  ever  and  ever  I  shall  hate  anything  that 
is  clandestine  or  underhand." 

"  It  is  of  no  use  moralising,  Ella,  or  indulging  in  useless  regrets," 
Claudia  broke  in  petulantly.  "  Regrets  will  not  alter  the  past — I 
wish  they  could  1  What  I  have  to  do  now  is  to  get  rid  of  all  traces 
of  that  wretched  affair,  I~I  must  dispose  of  the  child  somehow. 
^\'ill  you  help  me  to  plan  ?  Ella,  dear,  dear  Ella,  you  must  be  my 
friend  1 " 

She  held  out  her  hands  imploringly,  but  Ella  did  not  touch  them. 
At  this  moment  Miss  Thome  felt  as  though  she  had  almost  ceased 
to  love  this  friend  of  her  youth,  to  whom  until  now  she  had  been  so 
ardently  attached. 

"  It  is  hard  that  one  should  be  forced  by  friendship  into  such 
tortuous  ways  1 "  she  complained.  "What  {an  you  do,  Claudia,  to 
dispose  of  the  child  ?    Poor  innocent  little  fellow ! " 

"  I  have  a  plan,"  answered  Claudia.  "  But  I  cannot  tell  it  you 
whilst  you  look  like  that,  Ella.  Oh  1  how  dreadful  everything  is ! 
How  I  hate  that — that  man  for  bringing  all  this  trouble  upon  me." 

"Claudia,  it  is  shocking  in  you  to  speak  so  !  Hubert  Stephens  is 
dead — and  he  was  your  husband,"  protested  Ella  with  unwonted 
severity.  "  I  have  often  marvelled  at  your  injustice  ;  but  it  seems 
worse  that  you  should  keep  it  up  now  that  he  is  gone.  You  know 
how  matters  look  to  my  eyes — how  they  would  look  to  the  eyes  of 


1 


I 


The   GeHtleman's  Magazine. 

any  fair  judge.  Of  course  he  was  wrong  in  the  beginning,  exceed- 
ingly wrong,  to  urge  you  into  that  secret  marriage.  But  you  know 
what  his  motive  was,  and  you  know  that  you  were  as  willing  to  be 
secured  as  he  was  anxious  to  secure  you.  He  was  older  than  you, 
certainly,  and  therefore  ought  to  have  known  better.  But  he  was 
not  so  much  older  as  to  make  it  fair  to  lay  the  entire  blame  upon 
him.  Then,  who  has  suffered  most  through  the  sin  ?  Not  you,  but 
/le.  How  can  you  help  pitying  him?  And  how  can  you  help  ac- 
knowledging that  his  conduct  towards  you  has  been  generous  and 
noble  beyond  expression  ?  Think  how  differently  he  might  have 
acted  !  Instead  of  virtually  giving  you  up  after  that  trouble  came 
upon  him  ;  instead  of  protecting  you  from  every  risk  of  discovery — 
burdening  himself  with  the  entire  care  and  support  of  the  child — 
starving  rather  than  obtrude  upon  you  once  he  knew  your  love  was 
gone  (and,  by  the  way,  I  am  satisfied  that  it  was  that  knowledge 
which  crushed  the  poor  fellow's  spirit,  and  prevented  his  rising  again 
in  the  world);  think  what  he  might  have  done  instead  of  all  this! 
Your  father  was  a  rich  man,  and  you  his  only  daugiiter.  He  was 
legally  married  to  you.  Why  did  he  not  come  forward  and  reveal 
that  fact,  and  claim  some  help  and  support  from  Mr.  Estcourt? 
Because  he  was  too  proud  to  do  it  when  he  was  penniless  and  sus- 
pected of  crime,  however  unjustly.  Because  he  was  too  much  of  a 
gentleman,  too  noble  of  soul,  to  force  himself  on  you  when  you  had 
showed  him  your  changed  feelings.  Because  your  interests  were 
everything  to  him— his  ow»  nothing.  Dear  Claudia,  I  can  under- 
stand your  having  wished  to  hide  the  fact  of  your  clandestine 
marriage,  but  I  never  can  understand  your  repugnance  to  poor 
Hubert  Stephens." 

"  Not  when  you  recollect  that  all  these  years  the  knowledge  that 
I  was  bound  to  him  has  been  shutting  me  out  from  any  hope  of 
happiness  with  one  whom  I  did  love  ?  Ella,  you  might  try  to  put 
yourself  in  my  place.  Then  you  would  understand  it  well  enough. 
My  liking  for  Hubert  Stephens  was  a  childish  fancy.  My  love  for 
Douglas  Awdry  is  real  love."  (It  nwj,  so  far  as  Claudia  was  capable 
of  real  love.)  "And  I  have  had  to  refuse  him  twice.  I  have  had  to 
hide  my  feelings — to  tear  out  my  heart-strings  I "  she  added  melo- 
dramatically. "  But,  thank  God,  I  am  free  at  last !  Ah,  you  cannot 
understand— you  have  no  sympathy." 

Miss  Thorne  smiled  a  little  contemptuously.  "  I  think,  Claudia, 
you  can  hardly  bring  that  accusation  against  me  very  reasonably," 
she  observed. 

"No,    I   cannot,"    retracted   Claudia,  hastily.       "  I   beg  your 


The  Unforeseen. 


120 


pardon,  Ella.  You  are  the  dearest  and  most  sympathetic  friend 
that  ever  was  in  the  world !  Only,  this  afternoon  you  have  seemed 
rather  hard  on  me,  you  know.  But  never  mind  that  Ella,  be  my 
friend  still!  Promise  that  you  will  always  be  my  friend?"  she 
implored. 

"  Poor  Claudia,  I  am  afraid  the  time  will  come  when  you  will 
need  a  friend,"  answered  the  younger  girl  sadly.  "  Yes,  I  will  keep 
faithful  to  you.    I  will  always  be  your  friend." 

A  warm  embrace  followed  this  compact. 

*' And  now,  darling,"  said  Claudia,  turning  a  sweet,  anxious  face, 
which  looked  like  that  of  a  suffering  angel,  towards  the  common- 
place  countenance  of  her  companion — "  now  let  us  discuss  my  plans." 


{To  bt  continued,) 


Two  widely  different  conceptions  of  military  discipline  are  con- 
tained in  the  words  of  an  English  writer  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  in  those  of  the  French  philosopher,  Helvetiiis,  in  the 
eighteencli  century.  There  is  a  fine  ring  of  the  best  English  spirit 
in  the  sentence  of  Giltins  ;  "  A  soldier  ought  to  fear  nothing  but 
God  and  dishonour."  And  there  is  the  true  French  wit  and 
insight  in  that  of  Helvetius  ;  "  Discipline  is  but  the  ait  of  inspiring 
soldiers  with  more  fear  for  their  own  officers  than  they  have  for  the 
enemy." ' 

But  the  difference  involved  lies  less  in  the  national  character 
of  the  writers  than  in  the  lapse  of  time  between  them,  discipline 
having  by  degrees  gained  so  greatly  in  severity  that  a  soldier  had 
come  to  be  regarded  less  as  a  moral  free  agent  than  as  a  mechanical 
instniment,  who,  if  he  had  any  fear  left  for  God  and  dishonour,  felt 
it  in  a  very  minor  degree  to  that  he  cherished  for  his  colonel  or 
commander.  This  is  the  broad  fact  which  explains  and  justifies  the 
proposition  of  Heivetius  ;  though  no  one,  recollecting  the  evils  of 
the  days  of  looser  discipline,  might  sec  cause  to  regret  the  change 
which  deprived  a  soldier  almost  entirely  of  the  moral  liberty  that 
naturally  belonged  to  him  as  a  man. 

The  tendency  of  discipline  to  become  more  and  more  severe  has 
of  course  the  effect  of  rendering  military  service  less  popular,  and 
consequently  recruiting  more  difficult,  without,  unhappily,  any 
corresponding  diminution  in  the  frequency  of  wars,  which  are  inde- 
pendent of  the  hirelings  who  fight  them.  \Vere  it  otiierwisc,  something 
might  be  said  for  the  military  axiom,  that  a  soldier  has  none  of  the 
common  rights  of  man.  There  is  therefore  no  gain  from  any  point 
of  view  in  denying  to  the  military  class  the  enjoyment  of  the  rights 
and  privileges  of  ordinary  humanity. 

The  extent  of  this  denial  aud  its  futility  may  be  shown  by  refer- 
ence to  army  regulations  concerning  marriage  and  religious  worship. 
In  the  Prussian  army,  till  1S70,  marriages  were  legally  null  and  void 
'  L'Esfrit,i,  562. 


I  ud  the  offspring  of  them  illegitimate  in  the  case  of  officers  marrying 
mthoul  royal  consent,  or  of  subordinate  officers  without  the  consent 
of  the  commander  of  their  regiments.  But  after  the  Franco-German 
war  so  great  was  the  social  disorder  found  to  be  consequent  upon 
these  restrictions,  that  a  special  law  had  to  be  made  lo  remove  the 
bar  of  illegitimacy  from  the  marriages  in  question.'  In  the  English 
anuy  the  inability  of  privates  to  marry  before  the  completion  of  seven 
years'  service,  and  the  possession  of  at  least  one  badge,  and  then 
only  with  the  consent  of  the  commanding  officer,  is  a  custom  so 
entirely  contrary  lo  the  liberty  enjoyed  in  other  walks  of  life,  that, 
whatever  its  incidental  advantages,  it  can  scarcely  fail  to  act  as  a 
deterring  motive  when  the  choice  of  a  career  becomes  a  subject  of 
reflection. 

The  custom  of  what  is  known  in  the  army  as  Church  Parade 
affords  another  instance  of  the  unreasonable  curtailments  of  indi- 
vidoal  liberty  that  are  still  regarded  as  essential  to  discipline.  A 
soldier  is  drummed  to  church  just  as  he  is  drummed  to  the  drill- 
ground  or  the  battle-field.  His  presence  in  church  is  a  matter  of 
compulsion,  not  of  choice  or  conviction  ;  and  the  general  principle 
that  such  attendance  is  valueless  unless  it  is  voluntary  is  waived  in 
his  case  as  in  that  of  very  young  children,  with  whom,  in  this  respect, 
he  is  placed  on  a  par.  If  we  inquire  for  the  origin  of  the  practice, 
we  shall  probably  find  it  in  certain  old  Saxon  and  imperial  articles 
of  war,  which  show  that  the  prayers  of  the  military  were  formerly 
r^atded  as  equally  efficacious  with  their  swords  in  obtaining  victories 
over  their  enemies ;  and  therefore  as  a  very  necessary  part  of  their 
duty.*  The  American  articles  of  war,  since  1806,  enact  that  "  it  is 
earnestly  recommended  to  all  officers  and  soldiers  to  attend  divine 
service,"  thus  obviating  in  a  reasonable  way  all  the  evils  inevitably 
connected  with  a  purely  compulsory,  and  therefore  humiliating, 
church  parade.^ 

It  would  seem  indeed  as  if  the  war-presiding  genii  had  of  set 
purpose  endeavoured  to  make  military  service  as  distasteful  as 
possible  to  mankind.  For  they  have  made  discipline  not  merely  a 
curtailment  of  liberty  and  a  forfeiture  of  rights,  but,  as  it  were,  an 
experiment  on  the  limits  of  human  endurance.  There  has  been 
no  tyranny  in  the  world,  political,  judicial,  or  ecclesiastical,  but 
has  had  its  parent  and  pattern  in  some  military  system.  It  has  been 
armies  more  than  from  its  kings  that  the  world  has  learnt  its 

'  Strafyrie/iiucA,  Jan.  ao,  1872,  ij,  75,  150, 
'  Fleming's  VMommne  Teutuhe  Sohlat,  96. 
'Benei's  Um'leil  Slales  Arliclci  e/ War,  391. 


1 


^™        lesson  of  arhitr; 


The  GentletnaH's  Magazine. 


I 


lesson  of  arbitrary  tribunals,  tortures,  and  cruel  punishniems.  The 
Inquisition  itself  could  scarcely  have  devised  a  more  excruciating 
punishment  than  the  old  English  military  one  of  riding  the  Wooden 
Horse,  when  the  victim  was  made  to  sit  astride  planks  nailed  together 
in  a  sharp  ridge,  and  in  rough  resemblance  to  a  horse,  with  his  hands 
tiedbehiiidhim,andmusketsfixed  to  his  legs  to  drag  them  downwards; 
or  again,  than  the  punishment  of  the  Picket,  in  which  the  band  was 
fastened  to  a  hook  in  a  post  above  the  head,  and  the  man's  suspended 
body  left  to  be  supported  by  his  bare  heel  resting  on  a  wooden  stump, 
of  which  the  end  was  cut  to  the  sharpness  of  a  sword  point.'  The 
punishment  of  running  the  gauntlet  (from  the  German  Gassenlaufen, 
street  running,  because  the  victim  ran  through  the  street  between  two 
lines  of  soldiers  who  tormented  him  on  his  course)  is  said  to  have 
been  invented  by  Gustavus  Adolphus  ;  and  is  perhaps,  from  the  fact 
of  thus  bringing  the  cruelty  of  many  men  to  bear  on  a  single  com- 
rade, the  most  cowardly  form  of  torture  that  has  ever  found  favour 
among  military  authorities.^ 

But  the  penal  part  of  military  discipline,  with  its  red-hot  irons, 
its  floggings,  and  its  various  forms  of  death,  is  too  repulsive  to  do 
more  than  glance  at  as  testimony  of  the  cruelty  and  despotism  that 
have  never  been  separated  from  the  calling  of  arms.  The  art  of  the 
disciplinarian  has  ever  been  to  bring  such  a  series  of  miseries  to  bear 
upon  a  man's  life  that  the  prospect  of  death  upon  the  battle-field 
should  have  for  him  rather  charms  than  terrors  ;  and  the  talc  of  the 
soldier  who,  when  his  regiment  was  to  be  decimated,  drew  a  blank 
without  the  latal  D  upon  it,  and  immediately  offered  it  to  a  comrade 
for  half-a-crown,  who  had  not^yet  drawn,  shows  at  how  cheap  a  rate 
men  may  be  reduced  to  value  their  lives  after  experience  of  the 
realities  of  a  militar)'  career. 

Many  of  the  devices  are  curious  by  which  this  indifference  to  life 
has  been  matured  and  sustained.  In  ancient  Athens  the  pubUc 
temples  were  closed  to  those  who  refused  military  service,  who 
deserted  their  ranks  or  lost  their  bucklers ;  whilst  a  law  of  Charondas 
of  Catana  constrained  such  offenders  to  sit  for  three  days  in  the 
public  forum  dressed  in  the  garments  of  women.  Many  a  Spartan 
mother  would  stab  her  son  who  came  back  alive  from  a  defeat ;  and 
such  a  man,  if  he  escaped  his  mother,  was  debarred  not  only  from 
public  offices  but  from  marriage  ;  exposed  to  the  blows  of  all  who 
chose  to  strike  him  ;  compelled  to  dress  in  mean  clothing,  and  to 
wear  his  beard  negligently  trimmed.    And  in  the  same  way  a  Norse 

'  Grose,  ii.  199. 

'  Sec  Turner's  Pal/as  Armala,  349,  for  these  and  similar  mitilary  lortures. 


I 


Curiosities  of  Military  Discipline. 

soldier  who  fled,  or  lost  hia  shield,  or  received  a  wound  in  any  save 
■jie  front  part  of  his  body,  was  by  law  prevented  from  ever  afterwards 
.ippearing  mpublic.' 

There  are,  indeed,  few  military  customs  but  have  their  origin  and 
explanation  in  the  artificial  promotion  of  courage  in  the  minds  of  the 
combatants.  This  is  true  even  to  the  details  and  peculiarities  of 
costume.  English  children  are,  perhaps,  still  taught  that  French 
soldiers  wear  red  trousers  in  order  that  the  sight  of  blood  may  not 
frighten  them  in  war-time ;  and  doubtless  French  children  imbibe  a 
similar  theory  regarding  the  English  red  coats.  The  same  reason 
V3S  given  by  Julius  Ferretus  in  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century 
for  the  short  red  frock  then  generally  worn  by  the  military.^  The 
fint  mention  of  red  as  a  special  military  colour  in  England  is  said  to 
have  been  the  order  issued  in  152C  for  the  coats  of  all  yeomen  of  the 
bousehotd  to  be  of  red  cloth.'  Eut  the  colour  goes,  at  least,  as  far 
back  as  Lycurgus,  the  Spartan  lawgiver,  who  chose  it,  according  to 
Xenophon,  because  red  is  most  easily  taken  by  cloih  and  most  last- 
ing; according  to  Plutarch,  that  ils  brightness  might  help  to  raise  the 
^irits  of  its  wearers  ;  or,  according  to  .^lian  and  Valerius  Maximus, 
ia  Older  to  conceal  ihe  siglit  of  blood,  that  raw  soldiers  might  not  be 
dispirited  and  the  enemy  proportionately  encouraged. 

The  bear-skin  hats,  which  still  make  some  EnglisJi  regiments 
ridiculous  and  unsightly,  were  perhaps  in  their  origin  tlie  inventions 
of  terrorism.  Evelyn,  writing  of  the  year  r678,  says  ;  "Now  were 
brought  into  service  a  new  sort  of  soldiers  called  Grenadiers,  who 
were  dextrous  in  fiinging  hand-grenades,  every  man  having  a  hand 
folL  They  had  furred  caps  with  coped  crowns  like  Janizaries, 
which  made  them  look  very  fierce  ;  and  some  had  long  hoods  hang- 
ing down  behind  as  we  picture  fools."  We  may  fairly  identify  the 
motii'e  of  such  headgear  wiih  the  result ;  and  the  more  so  since 
the  looking  fierce  with  the  borrowed  skins  of  bears  was  a  well- 
known  artifice  of  the  ancient  Romans.  Thus  Vegetius  speaks  of 
as  covered  with  bear-skms  in  order  to  terrify  the  enemy,* 

1  Virgil  has  a  significant  description  of  a  warrior  as 
Hoiricius  in  jaculis  et  pelle  Libyslidis  ursre. 

We  may  trace  the  same  motive  again  in  the  figures  of  fierce  birds 
«■  beasts  depicted  on  flags  and  shields  and  helmets,  whence  they 

'  Crichlon's  Siandinai'ia,  i,  16S, 

»Gw«e,  ii..  6, 

•  Sit  S.  Scolt's  Mistery  eflhi  British  Amy,  ii.  436. 

I    II.,   16.      Orones  aulcm  signiiii   vel    sigoifcti    1 


'    II.,   16.      Orones  aulcm  signiiii   vel    sigoifcti    quamvis   pediles    loricas  ^ 

tores  accipiebant,  tlgalccu  ad  terrorem  haslium  uniiiis  pelliimi  Uetai.  ^H 
i 


I 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

have  descended  with  less  harmful  purpose  to  crests  and  armorial 
bearings.  Thus  the  Cimbri,  whom  Marius  defeated,  wore  on 
their  plume- covered  helmets  the  head  of  some  fierce  animal 
with  its  mouth  open,  vainly  hoping  thereby  to  intimidate  the 
Romans.  The  latter,  before  it  became  customary  lo  display  the 
images  of  their  Emperors  on  their  standards,  reared  aloft  the 
menacing  representations  of  dragons,  tigers,  wolves,  and  such  like ; 
and  the  figure  of  a  dragon  in  use  among  the  Saxons  at  the  time 
of  the  Conquest,  and  after  that  event  retained  by  the  early  Norman 
princes  among  the  ensigns  of  war,'  may  reasonably  be  attributed 
to  the  same  motive. 

Lastly  under  this  head  should  be  mentioned  Villani's  account  ol 
the  English  armour  worn  in  the  thirteenth  century,  where  he  describes 
how  the  pages  studied  lo  keep  it  clean  and  bright,  so  that  when  their 
masters  came  to  action  their  armour  shone  like  looking-glass  and 
gave  them  a  more  terrifying  appearance.'  Was  the  result  here  again 
the  motive,  and  must  we  look  for  the  primary  cause  of  the  great 
solicitude  slill  paid  to  the  brightness  of  accoutrements  to  the  hope 
thereby  to  add  a  pang  the  more  to  the  terror  desirable  to  instill  into 
an  enemy? 

Such  were  some  of  the  artificial  supports  supplied  to  bravery  in 
former  times.  But  there  is  all  the  difference  in  the  world  between  the 
bravery  appealed  to  by  our  ancestors  and  that  required  since  the  revolu- 
tion effected  in  warfare  by  the  Invention  of  gimpowder.  Before  that 
epoch,  the  use  of  catapults,  bows,  or  other  missiles  did  not  deduct 
from  the  paramount  importance  of  personal  valour.  The  brave 
soldier  of  olden  times  displayed  the  bravery  of  a  man  who  defied  a 
force  similar  or  equal  to  his  own,  and  against  which  the  use  of  his 
own  right  hand  and  intellect  might  help  him  to  prevail ;  but  his 
modem  descendant  pits  his  bravery  mainly  against  hazard,  and  owes 
it  to  chance  alone  if  he  escape  alive  from  a  battle.  However  higher 
in  kind  may  be  the  bravery  required  to  face  a  shower  of  shrapnel 
than  to  contend  against  swords  and  spears,  it  is  assuredly  a  bravery 
that  involves  rather  a  blind  trust  in  luck  than  a  rational  trust  in 
personal  fortitude. 

So  thoroughly  indeed  was  this  change  foreseen  and  appreciated 
that  at  every  successive  advance  in  the  methods  of  slaughter  curious 
fears  for  the  total  extinction  of  military  courage  have  haunted  mindS' 
too  readily  apprehensive,  and  found  sometimes  remarkable  expressiou. 
When  the  catapult^  was  first  brought  from  Sicily  to  Greece,  King 

'Scoit.  i[.  9.  '/;/«',  1311. 

'Sa,\d  to  have  been  invented  about  400  b.c.  bf  Dionysius,  lyrant  o(  SyracuK 


Curiositus  of  Military  Discipline.  135 

Arehidatnus  saw  in  it  the  graveof  true  valour;  and  the  sentiment  against 
fiieanns,  which  led  Barard  lo  exclaim  "  Oest  unf  honte  qu'iin  homme 
,.■>  cxur  soil  txpois  &  phir  par  unf  miserable  friqtientUe"  was  one 
that  was  traceable  even  down  to  the  last  century  in  the  history  of 
Europe.  For  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden  is  declared  by  Berenhorst  to 
have  fell  keenly  the  infamy  of  such  a  mode  of  fighting ;  and  Marshal 
Saxc  held  musketry  fire  in  such  contempt  that  he  even  went  so  far 
as  to  advocate  the  rein  trod  ucti  on  of  the  lance,  and  a  return  to  the 
close  combats  customary  in  earlier  times,' 

But  our  military  codes  contain  no  rcdeclion  of  the  different 
aspects  under  which  personal  bravery  enters  into  modem,  as 
compared  with  ancient,  warfare;  and  this  omission  has  tended  lo 
throw  governments  back  upon  pure  force  and  compulsion,  as  the 
only  possible  way  of  recruiting  their  regiments.  The  old  Roman 
military  punishments,  such  as  cruelly  scourging  a  man  before 
putting  him  to  death,  afford  certainly  no  models  of  a  lenient  discip. 
line;  but  when  we  read  of  companies  who  lost  their  colours  being 
for  punishment  only  reduced  to  feed  on  barley  instead  of  wheat,  and 
reflect  that  death  by  shooting  would  be  the  penalty  under  the 
discipline  of  most  modern  nations '  for  an  action  bearing  any 
complexion  of  cowardice,  it  is  impossible  to  admit  that  a  rational 
adjustment  of  punishments  to  offences  is  at  all  better  observed  in  the 
war  articles  of  the  modems  than  in  the  military  codes  of  pagan 
antiquity. 

This,  at  least,  is  clear,  from  the  history  of  military  discipline,  that 
only  by  the  most  repressive  laws,  and  by  a  tyranny  subversive  of  the 
commonest  rights  of  men,  is  it  possible  lo  retain  men  in  the  fighting 
service  of  a  country,  after  forcing  or  cajoling  them  into  it.  And  this 
,  consideration  meets  the  theory  of  an  inherent  love  of  fighting  domin- 
I  Bting  human  nature,  such  as  that  contended  for  in  a  letter  from  Lord 
J  Palmerston  to  Cobden,  wherein  he  argues  that  man  is  by  nature  a 
■'SghtiDg  and  quarrelling  animal.  The  proposition  is  true  undoubtedly 
I  of  some  savage  races,  and  of  the  idle  knights  of  the  days  of 
I  chivalry,  but,  not  even  in  those  days,  of  the  lower  classes,  who 
I  incurred  the  real  dangers  of  war,  and  still  less  of  the  unfortunate 
I  privates  or  conscripts  of  modern  armies.  Fighting  is  only  possible 
(.between  civilised  countries,  because  discipline  first  fits  men  for 
I  -war  and  for  nothing  else,  and  then  war  again  necessitates  discipline. 
.  Nor  is  anything  gained  by  ignoring  the  conquests  that  have 
,   li^t^y  been   won  over  the   savage  propensity  to  war.      Single 

'  Mitchell's  Bwgrap?iif!  of  Emitunl  SaUliers,  2o8,  187. 

•  Compsce  article  14  of  llie  Ceiman  Slra/gtielzbuih  ot  JinMaT  10,  \%li. 


I 


136  The  GeniUmAtis  Magazine. 

stales  no  longer  suffer  private  wars  within  their  boundaries,  lilte 
those  customary  between  the  feudal  barons ;  we  decide  most  of  our 
quarrels  in  law  courts,  not  upon  battlefields,  and  wisely  prefer 
arguments  to  arms.  A  population  as  large  as  that  of  Ireland  and 
about  double  as  large  as  that  of  all  our  colonies  in  Australia  put 
together  lives  in  London  alone,  not  only  without  weapons  of  defence 
in  their  hands,  but  with  so  little  taste  for  blood -encounters  that  you 
may  walk  for  whole  days  through  its  length  and  breadth  without  so 
much  as  seeing  a  single  street-fighL  Ifthen  thismiracle  of  social  ordei 
has  been  achieved,  why  not  the  wider  one  of  that  harmony  between 
nations  which  requires  but  a  little  common-sense  and  determinadon 
on  the  part  of  those  most  concerned  in  order  to  become  an 
accomplished  reality  ? 

The  limitations  of  personal  liberty  already  alluded  to  would  of 
themselves  suffice  in  a  country  of  free  institutions  to  render  the 
military  profession  distasteful  and  unpopular.  The  actual  perils  of 
war,  at  no  time  greater  than  those  of  mines,  railways,  or  merchant- 
shipping,  would  never  alone  deter  men  from  service ;  so 
that  we  must  look  for  other  causes  to  explain  the  difficulty  of 
recruiting  and  the  frequency  of  desertion,  which  are  the  perplexity 
of  military  systems  still  based,  as  our  own  is,  on  the  principle  of 
voluntary  not  compulsory  enlistment. 

What  then  makes  a  military  life  so  little  an  object  of  desire  in 
countries  where  it  can  be  avoided  is  more  than  its  dangers,  more 
even  than  its  loss  of  liberty,  its  irredeemable  and  appalling  dulness. 
The  shades  in  point  of  cheerfulness  must  be  few  and  fine  which  dis- 
tinguish a  barrack  from  a  convict  prison.  In  none  of  the  employ- 
ments of  civil  life  is  there  anything  to  compare  with  the  unspeakable 
monotony  of  parades,  recurring  three  or  four  times  every  day,  varied 
perhaps  in  wet  weather  by  the  military  catechism,  and  with  the 
intervals  of  time  spent  in  occupations  of  little  interest  or  dignity. 
The  length  of  lime  devoted  to  the  mere  cleaning  and  poUshing  of 
accoutrements  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  the  common  expression 
applied  to  such  a  task  is  "  soldiering  "  ;  and  the  work  which  comes 
next  in  importance  to  this  soldiering  is  the  humbler  one  of  peeling 
potatoes  for  dinner.  Even  military  greatcoats  require  on  a  moderate 
estimate  half  an  hour  or  more  every  day  to  be  properly  folded,  the 
penalty  of  an  additional  hour's  drill  being  the  probable  result  of  any 
carelessness  in  this  highly  important  military  function. 

Still  less  calculated  to  lend  attractiveness  to  the  life  of  the  ranks 
are  the  daily  fatigue  works,  or  extra  duties  which  fall  in  turn  on  the 
men  of  every  company,  such  as  coal  carrying,  passage  cleaning, 
gutter  clearing,  and  other  like  menia\  -woilia  of  uecessity. 


Curiosities  of  Military  Discipline. 

But  the  long  hours  of  seniry  duty,  popularly  called  "Sentry-go," 
constitute  the  soldier's  greatest  bane.  Guard  duty  in  England, 
recurring  at  short  periods,  lasts  a  whole  day  and  night,  every  four 
hours  of  the  twenty-four  being  spent  in  full  accoutrement  in  theguard 
room,  and  every  intervening  two  hours  on  active  sentry,  thus  makmg 
in  all — sixteen  hours  in  the  guard-room,  and  eight  on  the  sentry  post. 
The  voluntary  sufferings  of  the  saints,  the  tortures  devised  by  the 
religious  orders  of  olden  days,  or  the  self-inflicted  hardships  of 
sport,  paJe  before  the  two  hours  sentry-go  on  a  winter's  night.  This 
it  is  U»at  kills  our  soldiers  more  fatally  than  an  enemy's  cannon,  and 
is  bome  with  more  admirable  patience  than  even  the  hardships  of  a 
sicgfc  "  After  about  thirty-one  cr  thirty-two  years  of  age,"  says  Sir 
F.  Roberts,  "  the  private  soldier  usually  ages  rapidly,  and  becomes  a 
v-ctcnui  both  in  looks  and  habits ; "  '  and  this  distinguished  military 
commander  points  to  excessive  sentry  duty  as  the  cause. 

But,  possible  as  it  thus  is,  by  rigour  of  discipline,  to  produce  in  a 
soldier  total  indifference  to  death,  by  depriving  him  of  everything 
that  makes  life  desirable,  it  is  impossible  to  produce  indifference  to 
tedium  ;  and  a  policy  is  evidently  self- destructive  which,  by  aiming 
exclusively  at  producing  a  mechanical  character,  renders  military 
service  itself  so  unpopular  that  only  the  young,  the  inexperienced, 
or  the  ill-advised  will  join  the  colours  at  all ;  that  lo  per  cent,  of 
those  who  do  join  them  will  desert ;  and  that  the  rest  will  regard  it  as 
the  gala  day  of  their  lives  when  ihey  become  legally  entitled  to  their 
discharge  from  the  ranks, 

In  England  about  lo  per  cent,  of  the  recruits  desert  every  year, 
as  compared  with  50  per  cent,  in  the  United  States.  The  reason  for 
so  great  a  difference  is  probably  not  so  much  that  the  American 
discipline  is  more  severe  or  dull  than  the  English,  as  that  in  the 
Benrer  country,  where  subsistence  is  easier,  the  counter-attractions  of 
peaceful  trades  offer  more  irresistible  inducements  to  desertion. 

Desertion  from  the  English  ranks  has  naturally  diminished  since 
the  introduction  of  the  short-service  system  has  set  a  visible  term  to 
the  hardships  of  a  military  life.  Adherence  to  the  colours  for  seven 
or  eight  years,  or  even  for  twelve,  which  is  now  the  longest  service 
possible  at  the  time  of  enlistment,  and  adherence  lo  them  for  life, 
clearly  place  a  very  different  complexion  on  the  desirability  of  an 
illegal  escape  from  them.  So  that  considering  the  reductions  that 
have  been  made  in  the  term  of  service,  and  the  increase  of  pay 
made  in  1867,  and  again  in  1S73,  nothing  more  strongly  demon- 
strates the  national  aversion  of  the  English  people  to  arms  than  the 
I  NimelttHlh  Ctnfury,  Novcnibei  iSSa  ;  "  The  Fiesetit  SUlc  ot  Ac  A-im-j." 

YQi-  ccLvni.    NO,  iSjo.  \, 


J 


1 38  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

exceeding  difficulty  with  which  ilie  ranks  are  recniited,  and  the  high 
average  of  the  percentage  of  desertions.  If  of  recent  years  recruiting 
has  been  better,  the  explanation  is  simply  that  trade  has  been  worse ; 
statistics  of  recruiting  being  the  best  possible  barometer  of  the  state 
of  the  nation,  since  the  scarcity  or  abundance  of  recruits  varies 
concomitantly  with  the  brisk  or  slack  demand  for  labour  in  other 
employments. 

In  few  things  has  the  world  grown  more  tolerant  than  in  its 
opinion  and  treatment  of  Desertion,  Death  was  once  its  certain 
penalty,  and  death  with  every  aggravation  that  brutal  cruelty  could 
add.  Two  of  Rome's  most  famous  generals  were  Scipio  ^milianus 
and  Pauhis  j^milius ;  yet  the  former  consigned  deserters  to  fight 
with  wild  beasts  at  the  public  games,  and  the  latter  had  them  trodden 
to  death  by  elephants. 

A  form  of  desertion,  constituting  one  of  the  most  curious  but 
least  noticed  chapters  in  the  history  of  military  discipline,  is  that  of 
Malingering,  or  the  feigning  of  sickness,  and  self-mutilation,  dis- 
abling from  service.  The  practice  goes  far  back  into  history.  Cicero 
tells  of  a  man  who  was  sold  for  a  slave  for  having  cut  off  a  finger, 
in  order  to  escape  from  a  campaign  in  Sicily,  Vegetius,  the  great 
authority  on  Roman  discipline,  speaks  of  soldiers  wlio  simulated 
sickness  being  punished  as  traitors  ;  '  and  an  old  English  writer  00 
the  subject  says  of  the  Romans  :  "  UTiosoever  mutilated  their  own 
or  their  children's  bodies  so  as  thereby  designedly  to  render  them 
unfit  to  carry  arms  (a  practice  common  enough  in  those  elder  times 
when  all  were  pressed  to  the  wars),  were  adjudicated  to  perpetual 
exile." ' 

The  writer  here  referred  to  lived  long  before  the  days  of  the 
conscription,  with  which  he  fancied  self- mutilation  to  be  connected. 
And  it  certainly  seeras  that  whereas  all  the  military  codes  of  modem 
nations  contain  articles  dealing  with  that  offence,  and  decreeing 
penalties  against  it,  there  was  less  of  it  in  the  days  before  compulsory 
service.  There  is,  for  instance,  no  mention  of  it  in  the  German 
articles  of  war  of  the  seventeenth  century,  though  the  other  military 
crimes  were  precisely  those  that  are  common  enough  still.' 

But  even  in  England,  where  soldiers  are  not  yet  military  slaves,  it 
has  been  found  necessary  to  deal,  by  specific  clauses  in  the  anny 
regulations,  with  a  set  of  facts  of  which  there  is  no  indication  in 
the  war  articles  of  the  seventeenth  or  eighteenth  century.*     The 


1  De  Ri  Afililari,  vi.  5.  >  Bnice^s  Mililary  Law  (1717},  354. 

•  See  Fleming's  Tenlieht  Soldat,  ch.  29. 
'See  the  H'ar  Articles  for  1673,  1749,  1794. 


J 


I 


Curiosities  of  Military  Discipline.  159 

inference  therefore  is,  that  the  conditions  of  miliiary  service  have 
become  universally  more  disagreeable.  The  clauses  in  the  actual 
war  articles  deserve  to  be  quoted,  that  it  may  appear,  by  the  provisions 
against  it,  to  what  lengths  the  arts  of  self-niulilation  are  carried  by 
despairing  men,  The  8  ist  Articleof  War  provides  punishment  against 
any  soldier  in  Her  Majesty's  amiy  "who  shall  malinger,  feign  or 
produce  disease  or  inhrmit)-,  or  shall  wilfully  do  any  act  or  wilfully 
disobey  any  orders  whether  in  hospital  or  otherwise,  thereby  produc- 
ing or  aggravating  disease  or  infirmity  or  delaying  his  cure,  ...  or 
who  shall  maim  or  injure  himself  or  any  other  soldier,  whether  at  the 
instance  of  such  other  soldier  or  not,  or  cause  himself  to  be  maimed 
or  injured  by  any  other  person  with  intent  thereby  to  render  himself 
or  such  other  soldier  unfit  for  service,  ...  or  who  shall  tamper 
with  his  eyes  with  intent  thereby  to  render  himself  unfit  for  service." 

That  it  should  be  necessary  thus  to  provide  against  self-inflicted 
injuries  is  surely  commentary  enough  on  the  condition  of  life  in  the 
ranks.  The  allusion  to  tampering  with  the  eyes  may  be  illustrated  from 
a  passage  in  the  "  Life  of  Sir  C.  Napier,"  wherein  we  are  told  how  in 
the  year  i8o3  .t  private  of  the  28th  regiment  taught  his  fellow- soldiers 
to  produce  artificial  ophthalmia  by  holding  their  eyelids  open,  whilst  a 
comrade  in  arms  would  scrape  some  lime  from  the  barrack  ceiling  into 
their  eyes.'  For  a  profession  of  which  such  things  are  common  inci- 
dents, surely  the  wonder  is,  not  that  it  should  be  difficult,  but  that  it 
should  be  possible  at  all,  to  make  recruits.  In  the  days  of  Mahomet  Ali 
in  Egypt,  so  numerous  were  the  cases  in  which  the  natives  voluntarily 
blinded  themselves,  and  even  their  children,  of  one  eye  in  order  to 
escape  the  conscription,  that  Mahomet  AH  is  said  to  have  found  him- 
self underthe  necessity  of  raising  a  one-eyed  regiment.  Others  for 
the  same  purpose  would  chop  off  the  trigger  finger  of  the  right  hand, 
or  disable  themselves  from  biting  cartridges  by  knocking  out  some  of 
their  upper  teeth.  Scarcely  a  peasant  in  the  fields  but  bore  the  trace 
of  some  such  voluntarily  inflicted  disfigurement.  But  with  such  facts 
it  seems  idle  to  talk  of  any  inherent  Jove  for  fighting  dominating 
the  vast  majority  of  mankind. 

The  severity  of  military  discipline  has  even  a  worse  effect  than 
those  yet  alluded  to  in  its  tendency  to  demoralise  those  who  are  long 
subject  to  it,  by  inducing  mental  habits  of  servility  and  baseness. 
After  Alexander  the  Great  had  killed  Clitus  in  a  fit  of  drunken  rage, 
the  Macedonian  soldiery  voted  that  Clitus  had  been  justly  slain,  and 
desired  that  he  might  not  enjoy  the  rights  of  sepulture.'  Military 
servility  couid  scarcely  go  further  than  that,  but  such  baseness 
'  8j.  '  Quialus  Ciirliw.  viil.  1. 


I 


I 


I 


140  The  Genilmiaiis  Magazine. 

is   only  possible  under  a  state  of  discipline  which,    to    make  a 
soldier,    unmakes  a   man    by   depriving   him    of  all    that    ennobles 
his  species.     Under  no  other  than  miUlary  training,  and  in  no  other 
than  the  military  class,  would  the  atrocities  have   been   possible 
which  used  to  be  perpetrated  in  the  barrack  riding- school,   in  the 
old  Boggingdays.    Officers  and  privates  needed  the  debasing  influence 
of  discipline  to  enable  them  to  look  on  as  patient  spectators  at  the 
sufferings   of  a  helpless  comrade  tortured  by  the  cat-o'-nine  tails. 
Sir  C.  Napier  said  that  as  a  subaltern  he  "frequently  saw  600,  700 
800,  900,  and  1,000  lashes  sentenced  by  regimental  courts -martial 
and  generally  every  hsh  inflicted;"  a  feeling  of  horror  would  run 
through  the  ranks  at  the  first  blows  and  some  recruits  would  faint   but 
that  was  all.'     Had  they  been  men  and  not  soldiers,  they  would  not 
have  stood  such  iniquities.     A  typical  instance  of  this  martial  justice 
or  law  (to  employ  the  conventional  profanation  of  those  words)  was 
that  of  a  sergeant  who  in  1793  was  sentenced    to   i,ooo  lashes  for 
having  enlisted  two  drummers  for  the    East  Indian  Company  whom 
he  knew  to  belong  already  to  the  Footguards  ;  but  the  classical  de- 
scription of  an  English  flogging  will  always  be  Somerville's  account  of 
its  infliction  upon  himself  in  his  "  Autobiography  of  a  Working  Man."  * 
There  you  raayreadhow  the  regiment  was  drawn  up  four-deep  insidcthe 
riding-scliool ;  how  the  ofl^icers  (men  of  gentle  birth  and  breeding)  stood 
within  the  lines  of  the  men  ;  how  the  basin  of  water  and  towels  were 
ready  prepared  in  case  the  victim  should  faint  ;  how  the  hands  and 
feet  of  the  latter  were  fastened  to  a  ladder  by  a  rope  ;  and  how  the 
regimental  sergeant-major  stood  with  book  and  pencil  coolly  counting 
each  stroke  as  it  was  delivered  with  slow  and  deliberate  torture  till 
the  full  complement  of  a  hundred  lashes  had  been  inflicted.     The 
mere  reading  of  it  even  now  is  enough  to  make  the  blood  boil,  but 
that  men,  brave  and  freeborn,  should  have  stood  by  in  theirhundrcds 
and  seen  the  actual  reality  without  stirring,  proves  how  utterly  all 
human  feeling  is  eradicable  by  discipline,  and  how  sure  is  the  train- 
ing it  supphes  in  disregard  for  all  the  claims  of  humanity. 

Happily,  floggings  in  the  English  army  now  count  among  the 
curiosities  of  military  discipline,  like  the  wooden  horse  or  the  thumb- 
screw  ;  but  the  striking  thing  is  that  the  discipline,  in  the  sense  of 
the  good  conduct  of  the  army  in  the  field,  was  never  worse  than  in 
the  days  when  1,000  lashes  were  common  sentences.  It  was  pre- 
cisely when  courts-martial  had  the  legal  power  to  exercise  such 
tyranny  that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  complained  to  Lord  Castlereagh 
that  the  law  was  not  strong  enough  to  maintain  discipline  io  an  army 
'  MiUitry  Law,  163.  '  2S5,  290. 


I 


Curiosities  of  Military  Discipline. 

upon  actual  service.'  Speaking  of  the  army  in  the  Peninsula  he 
says  :  "  It  is  impossible  to  describe  to  you  the  irregularities  and  out- 
rages committed  by  the  troops ;  .  .  .  there  is  not  an  outrage  of  any 
descriptioD  which  has  not  been  committed  on  a  people  who  have 
received  us  as  friends  by  soldiers  who  neveryet  for  one  moment  suffered 
the  slightest  want  or  the  smallest  privation.  .  ,  .  We  are  an  excellent 
anny  on  parade,  an  excellent  one  to  fight,  but  we  are  worse  than  an 
enemy  in  a  country."  And  again  a  few  months  later  ;  "  I  really 
belie%-e  thai  more  plunder  and  outrage  have  been  committed  by  this 
army  than  by  any  other  that  was  ever  in  the  field"  In  the  general 
order  of  May  19,  1809,  are  these  words  :  "The  officers  of  companies 
must  attend  to  the  men  in  their  (parters  as  well  as  on  the  march,  or 
the  army  will  soon  be  no  better  than  a  banditti"* 

Whence  it  is  fair  to  infer  that  severity  of  discipline  has  no  ne- 
cessary connection  with  the  good  behaviour  or  easy  control  of  troops 
in  the  field,  such  discipline  under  the  Iron  Duke  himself  having  been 
conspicuous  for  so  lamentable  a  failure.  The  real  fact  is,  that  troops 
arc  difficult  to  manage  just  in  proportion  to  the  rigour,  the  monotony, 
and  the  dulness  of  the  discipline  imposed  upon  them  in  time  of 
peace;  the  rebound  corresponding  to  the  compression,  by  a  moral 
law  that  seems  to  follow  the  physical  one.  This  fact  is  nowhere 
better  noticed  than  in  I-ord  Wolselcy's  narrative  of  the  China  war  of 
i860,  where  he  says,  in  allusion  to  the  general  love  of  pillage  and 
destruction  characlerising  soldiers :  "  The  wild  moments  of  enjoyment 
passed  in  the  pillage  of  a  place  live  long  in  a  soldier's  memory.  ,  .  , 
Such  a  time  forms  so  marked  a  contrast  with  the  ordinary  routine  of 
existence  passed  under  the  tight  hand  of  discipline  that  it  becomes  a 
remarkable  event  in  life  and  is  remembered  accordingly."  ^ 

The  experience  of  the  Peninsular  war  proves  how  slender  is  the 
link  between  a  well-drilled  and  a  well-disciplined  army.  The  best 
disciplined  army  is  the  one  which  conducts  itself  with  least  excess  in 
the  field  and  is  least  demoralised  by  victory.  It  is  the  hour  of  victory 
that  is  the  great  test  of  the  value  of  military  regulations ;  and  so  well 
aware  of  this  was  the  best  disciplined  slate  of  antiquity  that  the 
soldiers  of  Sparta  desisted  from  pursuit  as  soon  as  victory  was  assured 
to  them,  partly  because  it  was  deemed  ungenerous  to  destroy  those 
who  could  make  no  further  resistance  (a  sentiment  absolutely  wanting 
from  the  boasted  chivalry  of  Christian  warfare),  and  partly  that  the 
enemy  might  be  tempted  to  prefer  flight  to  resistance.  It  is  a  re- 
proach to  modern  generalship  that  it  has  been  powerless  to  restraiii 

'  Detpalchn,  iii.  302,  June  17,  1809. 
'  Cgmpuc  also  Deifatehes,  iv,  457  ;  v.  583,  704,  5.  '  China  War, 


i 


142  The  Genllemaii's  Magazine. 

such  excesses  as  those  which  have  made  the  successful  stotmii^ 
cities  rather  a  disgrace  than  an  honour  to  those  who  have  won  them. 
The  only  way  to  check  them  is  to  make  the  officers  responsible  for 
what  occurs,  as  might  be  done,  for  instance,  by  punishing  a  general 
capitally  for  storming  a  city  with  forces  so  badly  disciplined  as  to 
nullify  the  advantages  of  success.  An  English  military  writer, 
speaking  of  the  storming  of  Ismcul  and  Fraga  by  the  Russians  under 
Suwarrow,  says  truly  that  "  posterity  will  hold  the  fame  and  honour 
of  the  commander  responsible  for  the  life  of  every  human  being 
sacrificed  by  disciplined  armies  beyond  the  fair  verge  of  battle  ; "  but 
it  is  idle  to  speak  as  if  only  Russian  armies  were  guilty  of  such 
excesses,  or  lo  say  that  nothing  but  the  prospect  of  them  could  tempt 
the  Russian  soldier  to  mount  the  breach  or  the  scaling-ladder.  The 
Russian  soldier  in  history  yields  not  one  whit  to  the  English  or  French 
in  bravery,  nor  is  there  a  grain  of  difference  between  the  Russian 
storming  of  Ismail  and  Praga  and  the  English  storming  of  Ciudad 
Rodrjgo,  Badajoz,  or  San  Sebastian,  that  tarnished  the  lustre  of  the 
British  arms  in  the  famous  Peninsular  war. 

And  should  we  be  tempted  to  think  that  successes  like  those 
associated  with  the  names  of  those  places  may  be  so  important  in  war 
as  to  outweigh  all  other  considerations,  we  must  also  not  forget  that 
the  permanent  military  character  of  nations,  for  humanity  or  the 
reverse,  counts  for  more  in  the  long  run  of  a  people's  history  than 
any  advantage  that  can  possibly  be  gained  in  a  single  campaign. 

Enough  has,  perhaps,  been  said  of  the  unpopularity  of  military 
service,  and  of  the  obvious  causes  thereof,  to  make  it  credible  that, 
had  the  system  of  conscription  never  been  resorted  to  in  Europe,  and 
the  principle  of  voluntary  enlistment  remained  intact  and  universal, 
the  difficulty  of  procuring  the  human  figliting  material  in  sufficient 
quantities  would  in  course  of  time  have  rendered  warfare  impossible, 
As  other  industries  than  mere  fighting  have  won  their  way  in  the 
world,  the  difficulty  of  hiring  recruits  to  sell  their  lives  to  their  country 
has  kept  even  pace  with  the  facility  of  obtaining  livelihoods  in  more 
regular  and  more  lucrative  as  well  as  in  less  miserable  avocations. 
In  the  fourteenth  century  soldiers  were  very  highly  paid  compared 
with  other  classes,  and  the  humblest  private  received  a  daily  wage 
equivalent  lo  that  of  a  skilled  mechanic  ; '  but  the  historical  process 
has  so  far  reversed  matters  that  now  the  pay  of  the  meanest  mechanic 
would  compare  favourably  with  that  of  all  the  fighting  grades  lower 
than  the  commissioned  and  warrant  ranks.  Consequently,  every 
attempt  to  make  the  service  popular  has  as  yet  been  futile,  no  ame- 
'  Scoll's  Briiiih  Army,  ii,  411, 


lioiation  of  it  enabling  it  to  compele  with  pacific  occupations,  The 
private's  pay  was  raised  from  sixpence  to  a  shilling  during  the  wars 
of  the  French  Revolution  ; '  and  before  that  it  was  found  necessarj', 
about  the  time  of  the  war  with  the  American  colonies,  to  bribe  men 
to  enlist  by  the  system  {since  abohshed)  of  giving  bounties  at  the 
time  of  enlistment.  Previous  to  the  introduction  of  the  bounty 
system,  a  guinea  to  provide  the  recruit  with  necessaries  and  a  crown 
wherewith  to  drink  the  king's  health  was  all  that  was  given  upon  en- 
listment, the  service  itself  (with  the  chances  of  loot  and  the  allied 
pleasures)  having  been  bounty  enough.'  Even  the  system  of  bounties 
proved  attractive  only  to  boys ;  for  as  the  Enghsh  statesman  said, 
whose  name  is  honourably  associated  with  the  first  change  in  our 
sj'Stem  from  enlistment  for  life  to  enlistment  for  a  limited  period, 
"  men  grown  up  with  all  the  grossness  and  ignorance  and  consequent 
want  of  consideration  incident  to  the  lower  classes"  were  too  wary  to 
accept  the  offers  of  the  recruiting  department.' 

The  shortening  of  the  term  of  service  in  180G  and  subsequently  the 
increase  of  pay,  the  mitigation  of  punishments,  must  all  be  understood 
as  attempts  to  render  the  military  life  more  attractive  and  more  cap- 
able of  competing  with  other  trades ;  but  that  they  have  all  signally 
filled  is  proved  by  the  chronic  and  ever- increasing  difficulty  of  de- 
coying recruits.    The  little  pamphlet,  published  by  authority  and 
distributed  gratis  at  every  post-office  in  the  kingdom,  showing  forth 
"the    Advantages    of  the  Army"   in  their  rosiest  colours,  cannot 
Counteract  the  influence  of  the  oral  evidence  of  men,  who,  after  a  short 
period  of  service,  are  dispersed  to  all  comers  of  the  country,  with 
their  tales  of  military  misery  to  tell,  confirming  and  propagating  that 
i>opular  theory  of  a  soldier's  life  which  sees  in  it  a  sort  of  earthly 
purgatory  for  faults  of  character  acquired  in  youtli,  a  calling  only  to 
l>e  adopted  by  those  whose  antecedents  render  industry  distasteful  to 
t-hem,  and  unfit  them  for  more  useful  pursuits. 

The  same  difficulty  of  recruiting  was  felt  in  France  and  Germany 
in  the  last  century,  when  voluntary  enlistment  was  still  the  rule.  In 
that  curious  old  military  book,  Fleming's  Volkommene  Teatsche  Soldat, 
is  a  picture  of  the  recruiting  officer,  followed  by  tnimpelers  and 
^Irummers,  parading  the  streets,  and  shaking  a  hat  full  of  silver  coins 
'Viear  a  table  spread  with  the  additional  temptations  of  wine  and 
'fceer,'  But  it  soon  became  necessary  to  supplement  this  system  by 
<:oerdve  methods  j  and  when  the  habitual  neglect  of  the  wounded 


'  WiBingtoris  Dupatikcs,  v.  705. 

'  See  Windham's  Speech  in  (he  House  of  Commons.     Ap.  3,  iSoC. 


i 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

and  the  great  number  of  needless  wars  made  it  difficult  or  impossible 
to  fill  up  the  ranks  with  fresh  recruits,  the  German  authorities 
resorted  to  a  regular  system  of  kidnapping,  taking  men  as  they  could 
get  them  from  their  ploughs,  their  churches,  or  even  from  their  very 
beds. 

In  France,  too,  Louis  XIV,  had  to  resort  to  force  for  filling  his 
ranks  in  the  war  of  the  Spanish  succession  ;  although  the  system  o( 
recruiting  reniained  nominally  voluntary  till  very  much  later.  The 
total  cost  of  a  French  recruit  amounted  to  ninety-two  livres  ;  but  the 
length  of  his  service,  though  it  was  changed  from  time  to  time  from 
periods  varying  from  three  to  eight  years,  never  exceeded  the  latter 
bmit,  nor  came  to  be  for  life  as  it  did  practically  in  England. 

The  experience  of  other  countries  proves,  therefore,  that  England 
will  sooner  or  later  adopt  the  principle  of  conscription  or  cease  to 
waste  blood  and  money  in  Continental  quarrels.  The  conscription 
will  be  for  her  the  only  possible  way  of  obtaining  an  army  at  all,  or 
one  at  all  commensurate  with  those  of  her  possible  European  rivals. 
And  the  conscription,  whether  under  a  free  government  or  not,  means 
a  tyranny  compared  to  which  the  tyrannies  of  the  Tudors  or  Stuarts 
were  as  a  yoke  of  silk  to  a  yoke  of  iron.  It  would  matter  little  that 
it  should  lead  to  or  involve  a  political  despotism,  for  the  greater 
despotism  would  ever  be  the  military  one,  crushing  out  all  indirid- 
uality,  moral  liberty,  and  independence,  and  consigning  to  the  soul- 
destroying  routine  of  petty  military  details  all  the  talent,  taste,  know- 
ledge, and  wealth  of  our  country,  which  have  hitherto  given  it  a 
distinctive  character  in  history,  and  a  foremost  place  among  the 
nations  of  the  earth. 

In  the  year  1702  a  woman  sen-ed  as  a  captain  in  the  French 
army  with  such  signal  bravery  that  she  was  rewarded  with  the  Order 
of  St.  Louis.  Nor  was  this  the  only  result ;  for  the  episode  roused 
a  serious  debate  in  the  world,  whether,  or  not,  military  service  might 
be  expected  of,  or  exacted  from,  the  female  sex  generally. '  Why  then 
should  the  conscription  be  confined  to  one  half  only  of  a  population, 
in  the  face  of  so  many  historical  insLinces  of  women  who  have  shown 
pre-eminent,  or  at  least  average,  military  capacity  ?  And  if  military 
service  is  so  ennobling  and  eKcellent  a  thing,  as  it  is  said  to  be,  for 
the  male  population  of  a  country,  why  not  also  for  the  female  ?  Or 
as  we  may  be  sure  that  it  would  be  to  the  last  degree  debasing  for 
t!ie  latter  half  of  the  community,  may  we  not  suspect  that  the 
reasoning  is  altogether  sophistical  which  claims  other  effects  as  the 
consequence  of  its  operation  on  the  stronger  sex  ? 

'  Fleming,  109. 


J 


»  Curiosities  of  Military  Discipline. 

What  those  effects  are  likeJy  to  be  on  the  further  development 
of  European  civilisaiion,  we  are  as  yet  scarcely  in  a  position  to 
judge.  We  are  still  living  only  on  the  threshold  of  the  change,  and 
can  hardly  estimate  the  ultimate  effect  on  human  life  of  the  trans- 
ference to  the  whole  male  population  of  a  country  of  the  habits  and 
vices  previously  confined  to  only  a  section  of  it.  But  this  at  least  is 
certain,  that  at  present  every  prediction  which  ushered  in  the  change 
is  being  falsified  from  year  lo  year.  This  universal  service  which  we 
call  the  conscription  was,  we  were  told,  lo  usher  in  a  sort  of  millen- 
nium ;  it  was  to  have  the  effect  of  humanising  warfare ;  of  raising 
ihe  moral  tone  of  armies ;  and  of  securing  peace,  by  making  the 
prospect  of  its  ahemative  too  appalling  to  mankind.  Not  only 
has  ii  done  none  of  these  things,  but  there  are  even  indications  of 
consequences  the  very  reverse.  The  amenities  that  cast  occasional 
gleams  over  the  professional  hostilities  of  the  eighteenth  century,  as 
when,  for  instance,  Crillon  besieging  Gibraltar  sent  a  cart-load  of 
carrots  to  the  English  governor,  whose  men  were  dying  of  scurvy, 
hare  passed  altogether  out  of  the  pale  of  possibility,  and  given  place 
to  a  hatred  between  the  combatant  forces  that  is  tempered  by  no 
cotirtesy  nor  restrained  by  the  shadow  of  humanity.  Whole  nations, 
instead  of  a  particular  class,  have  become  familiarised  with  deeds  of 
robbery  and  bloodshed,  and  parted  with  a  large  part  of  their  leisure 
once  available  for  progress  in  industry.  War  itself  is  at  any  given 
moment  infinitely  more  probable  than  it  used  to  be,  from  the 
constant  expectation  of  it  which  comes  of  constant  preparation ; 
nothing  having  been  proved  falser  by  history  than  the  commonplace 
that  has  descended  to  us  from  Vegetius  that  the  preparation  for  war 
is  the  high  road  to  peace.'  And  as  to  the  higher  moral  tone  likely 
to  spring  from  universal  militarism,  of  what  kind  may  we  expect  it  to 
be,  when  we  read,  in  a  work  by  the  greatest  living  English  general, 
destined,  Carjyie  hoped,  one  day  to  make  short  work  of  Parliameni, 
such  an  exposition  as  the  following  of  the  relation  between  the  moral 
duties  of  a  soldier  and  those  of  a  civilian :  "  He  (the  soldier)  must  be 
taught  to  believe  that  his  duties  are  the  noblest  which  fall  to  man's 
lot.  He  must  be  taught  to  despise  all  those  of  civil  life."  ' 
I  Erasmus  once  observed  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  how  little  it 
Kmattered  to  most  men  to  what  nationality  they  belonged,  seeing  that 
P-lt  was  only  a  question  of  paying  laxes  to  Thomas  instead  of  to  John, 
or  to  John  instead  of  to  Thomas ;  but  it  becomes  a  matter  of  even 
less  importance  when  it  ts  only  a  question  of  being  trained  for 
'  Preface  <o  b.  iii.  '■  Ergo  qui  dcsidcrat  pscem,  prrcparet  btUum." 
'  LoTii  Wolscley's  Soldicr-s  Poekil  Eeol;  5- 


I 


I 


The  GentletHafis  Magazine. 

murder  and  bloodshed  in  the  drill-yards  of  this  or  that  government 
What  is  it  to  a  conscript  whether  it  is  for  France  or  Germany  ihal  he 
is  forced  to  undergo  drill  and  discipline,  when  the  insipidity  of  the 
drill  and  the  tyranny  of  the  discipline  is  the  same  in  either  case  ?  If 
the  old  definition  of  a  man  as  a  reasoning  animal  is  to  be  exchanged 
for  that  of  a  fighting  animal,  and  the  claims  of  a  country  upon  a  man 
are  to  be  solely  or  mainly  in  resi>ect  of  his  fighting  utility,  it  is  evident 
that  the  relation  is  altered  between  the  individual  and  his  country, 
and  that  there  is  no  longer  any  lie  of  affection  between  them,  nor 
anything  to  make  one  nationality  diiferent  from  or  preferable  to 
another.  This  is  clearly  the  tendency  of  the  conscription  ;  and  it  is 
already  remarkable  how  it  has  lessened  those  earlier  and  narrower 
views  of  patriotism  which  were  the  pretext  formerly  for  so  many  trials 
of  strength  between  nations,  AVhat  then  are  the  probable  ultimate 
effects  of  this  innovation  on  the  development  and  maintenance  of 
peace  in  Europe? 

The  conscription,  by  reducing  the  idea  of  a  country  to  that 
merely  of  a  military  despotism,  has  naturally  caused  the  differences 
between  nations  to  sink  into  a  secondary  place,  and  to  be  super- 
seded by  those  differences  of  class  opinions  and  interests  which  are 
altogether  independent  of  nationahty,  and  regardless  of  the  barriers 
of  language  or  geography.  Thus  the  artisan  of  one  country  has 
learnt  to  regard  his  fellow-worker  of  another  country  as  in  a  much 
more  true  sense  liis  countryman  than  the  priest  or  noble  who, 
because  he  lives  in  the  same  geographical  area  as  himself,  pays  his 
taxes  to  the  same  central  government ;  and  the  different  political 
schools  in  the  several  countries  of  Europe  have  far  more  in 
common  with  one  another  than  with  the  opposite  party  of  their  own 
nationality.  So  that  the  first  effect  of  that  great  military  engine,  the 
conscription,  has  been  to  unloosen  the  bonds  of  the  idea  of  nation- 
ality which  has  so  long  usurped  the  title  to  patriotism  ;  and  the 
chances  of  war  have  been  to  thai  extent  diminished  by  the  under- 
mining of  the  prejudice  which  has  ever  been  its  mainstay. 

But  the  conscription  in  laying  one  spectre  has  raised  another ; 
for  over  against  Nationalism,  the  jealousy  of  nations,  it  has  reared 
Socialism,  the  jealousy  of  classes.  It  has  done  so,  not  only  by 
weakening  the  old  national  idea  which  kept  the  rivalry  of  classes 
in  abeyance,  but  by  the  pauperism,  misery,  and  discontent  which 
are  necessarily  involved  in  its  addition  to  military  expenditure, 
Thus  in  France  the  annual  military  expenditure  is  now  about  twenty- 
five  miUion  pounds,  whereas  in  1S69,  before  the  new  law  of  universal 
liability  to  service,  the  total  annual  cost  of  the  army  was  little  over 


I 


Curiosities  of  Military  Discipline.  147 

fifteen  millions,  or  the  average  annual  cost  of  the  present  army  of 
Great  Briton.  "Nothing,"  said  Froissart,  "drains  a  treasury  like 
men-at-anns  ; "  and  it  is  probably  below  the  truth  lo  say  that  a 
country  is  the  poorer  by  a  pound  for  every  shilling  it  expends  upon 
its  army.  Thus  by  tlie  nature  of  things  is  Socialism  seen  to  flow 
from  the  conscription;  and  we  have  only  lo  look  at  the  recent 
history  of  Europe  to  see  how  the  former  has  grown  and  spread 
in  exact  ratio  to  the  extension  of  the  latter.  That  it  does  not 
j-et  prevail  so  widely  in  England  as  in  France  or  Germany  is 
because  as  yet  we  have  no  compulsory  military  service. 

The  growth  of  Socialism  in  its  turn  is  not  without  an  effect  that 
may  prove  highly  beneficial  as  a  solvent  of  the  militarism  which  is 
the  uncompensated  evil  of  modern  times.  For  it  tends  to  cause  the 
governments  of  our  different  nationalities  to  draw  closer  together, 
and,  adopting  some  of  the  cosmopolitanism  of  their  common  foe, 
to  enter  into  league  and  union  against  tliose  enemies  to  actual 
institutions  for  whom  militarism  itself  is  primarily  responsible,  owing 
to  the  example  so  long  set  by  it  in  methods  of  lawlessness,  to  the 
S^mction  so  long  given  by  it  to  crime.  With  Socialistic  theories 
penneating  every  country,  but  more  especially  those  that  groan 
under  the  conscription,  international  jealousies  are  smothered 
and  kept  down,  and  must,  if  the  cause  continues,  ultimately  die  ouL 
Hence  the  curious  result,  but  a  result  fraught  with  hopefulness  for 
the  future,  that  the  peace  of  the  world  should  owe  itself  now,  in  an 
indirect  but  clearly  traceable  manner,  lo  the  raibtary  system  which  of 
all  others  that  was  ever  invented  is  the  best  calculalcil  lo  prevent 
and  endanger  it.  But  since  this  is  merely  lo  say  that  the  danger  of 
foreign  war  is  lessened  by  the  imminent  fear  of  civil  war,  liltle  is 
gained  by  the  exchange  of  one  peril  for  another.  Socialism  can  only 
be  averted  by  removing  the  cause  which  gives  birth  to  it — namely, 
that  unproductive  expenditure  on  military  forces  which  intensifies 
and  perpetuates  pauperism.  So  that  the  problem  of  the  times  for  us  in 
England  is  not  how  we  may  obtain  a  more  liberal  military  expendi- 
ture, still  less  how  we  may  compass  compulsory  service ;  but  how 
most  speedily  we  can  disband  our  army,  and  how  we  can  advance 
elsewhere  the  cause  of  universal  disarmament, 

J.    A.    FARRFR, 


The  Getitkman's  Magazine. 


ANOTHER 
GOETHE  CORRESPONDENCE. 


THE  profligioiis  productivity  of  Goethe  included  a  quite  sur- 
prising amount  of  correspondence.  We  arc  almost  at  a  loss 
to  conceive  how  he  should  have  found  time  for  so  many  Briffiaahsel 
when  we  consider  his  ceaseless  activity  as  a  writer.  His  early  and 
middle  time  was  the  day  of  correspondence  throughout  Europe.  The 
sentiment  of  the  time  was  coupled  with  the  comparative  slowness  of 
the  post  and  difficulty  of  travelling,  especially  on  ihe  continent ;  and 
men  did  not  hesitate  to  put  their  best  thoughts  into  letters  addressed 
to  worthy  correspondents.  An  idea  of  the  number  of  letters  that 
Goethe  wrote  may  be  formed  from  Strehlke's  "  Verzeichniss,"  or 
catalogue,  of  Goethe's  epistles.  Eut  the  list  is  by  no  means  complete. 
It  is  now  impossible  to  collect  together  all  the  letters  which  he  wrote 
in  various  periodicals  ;  and  it  is  well  known  that  the  Goethe  heirs 
possess  a  large  quantity  of  his  correspondence  which  has  not  yet 
been  edited  or  published, 

Meanwhile,  another  contribution  to  our  knowledge  of  his  letter- 
writing  has  just  been  made  by  Dr.  Richard  Maria  \\'emer,  who  has 
published,  in  Berhn,  "Goethe  und  Griifin  O'Doneli,  Ungedruckte 
Eriefe  nebst  dichterischen  Beilagen,  mit  zwei  Portraits."  The  letters 
from  Goethe  to  the  Countess  are  eighteen  in  number,  and  they  extend 
over  the  years  between  i3i2  and  1823;  that  is,  over  eleven  years. 
The  letters  from  the  Countess  to  Goethe  have  not  yet  been  found, 
and  we  can  but  guess  at  their  contents.  The  gaps  in  the  corre- 
spondence give  rise  to  the  supposition  that  the  whole  of  Goethe's 
letters  to  the  lady  have  not  been  recovered ;  but  the  eighteen  letters 
in  question  are  now,  for  tjie  first  time,  made  public  by  Dr.  Werner. 
His  collection  comprises  one  hitherto  unprinled  letter  from  Goethe 
to  Titine  de  Ligne,  who  afterwards  became  a  Countess  O'Doneli. 
The  O'Donells  of  Tyrconell  are  of  an  old  Irish  family  which  has 
long  been  settled  in  Austria.  Count  Moritz  (Maurice)  O'Doneli — 
the  name  should  doubtless  be  O'Donnell — possesses  at  bis  seat  at 
Lehen,  near  Sabburg,  the  letters  of  Goethe  to  the  Countess  Josephioe 


I  O'Dondl,  and  has  inherited  many  of  ihe  drawings  and  sketches,  also 
some  of  the  poems  which  Goethe  inclosed  in  his  leUers,  The  pre- 
sent Count  gave  to  Dr.  'Werner  permission  to  examine,  to  copy,  to 
publish  these  hterarj-  treasures;  and  both  Count  and  Doctor— the 
one  for  hberalily,  the  other  for  careful  labour — deserve  the  thanks 
of  all  those  who  take  an  interest  in  anything  that  the  author  of 
"  Faust "  wrote. 

The  letters  of  Goethe  to  the  fair  and  brilliant  Countess  are 
characterised,  not  by  the  flame  of  passion,  but  by  the  gentler  glow  of 
warm  and  genial  friendship.  They  are  full  of  courtly  courtesy,  and 
of  playful  pleasantry.  They  are  tender, graceful,  easy;  and  the  "red 
thread  "  which  runs  through  thcni  all  is  admiration  for  the  Empress, 
Maiia Ludovica,  of  Austria;  but  they  are  decidedly  inferior  in  in- 
lercst  and  in  value  to  many  of  the  letters  which  Goethe  wrote,  on 
loftierihemes,  and  to  more  intimate  and  more  intellectual  friends. 
The  charm  of  Goethe's  style  is,  however,  to  be  found  in  them.  The 
first  letter  begins,  "  Liebe,  neue  Freundion  "  (dear,  new  friend) ;  the 
last  concludes, "  In  treuer  Anhanglichkeit  verharrend  treulichst,  J.  W. 
V.  Goelhe," 

The  portrait  of  Goethe  which  Dr.  Werner  now  first  presents  to 
the  public  is  from  a  work  in  sepia,  painted  by  an  amateur  artist,  the 
Graf  von  Schiinberg-Rothschdnberg.  It  is  to  some  extent  a  Hkeness, 
but  it  lacks  the  force  and  grace,  the  regal  dignity,  which  distinguished 
the  great  poet  It  is  emphatically  the  work  of  a  "  dilettante "  in 
portrait-painting,  and  is  not  of  very  distinctive  mart  or  value.  It 
was  painted,  it  is  believed,  in  i8ro.  The  portrait  of  the  Countess 
Josephine,  which  is  by  an  unknown  hand,  is  a  far  better  work.  We 
see  clearly  a  lady  of  rank  and  of  fine  manners,  with  delicate  feminine 
features,  which  are  full  of  expression  and  meaning,  and  which  make 
upon  us  the  impression  of  a  graceful  lady  of  culture,  of  birth,  clever, 
and  of  lively  charm.  The  nose  and  mouth  are  very  individual,  and 
it  is  plain  that  the  likeness  has  been  well  caught.  The  face  is  depicted 
in  repose,  and  the  sitter  looks  as  if  she  were  listening  with  interest 
while  a  reply  is  gathering  on  her  lips.  The  Countess  wears  a  cap  of 
lace  studded  with  flowers,  which  surmounts  thickly  clustering  curls 
arranged  after  the  fashion  of  the  first  quarter  of  the  centur)-.  The 
work  is  sketchy,  but  satisfactory. 

In  the  year  i8ii,  in  which  the  acquaintance  began,  Goethe,  bom 
1749,  was  sixty-three;  while  the  lady,  bom  1779,  was  thirty-three. 
She  was  a  widow.  Bom  CountessofGaisruck,  she  became  the  second 
wife  of  Coiiht  Joseph  O'lJonell,  who,  born  1756,  died  181 
Count's  first  wife  was  his  cousin,  Countess  Therese  O'Donell,  who 


i 


I 


left  to  her  widowed  husband  one  son,  Moritz,  who  married,  in  1811, 
the  granddaughter  of  the  Prince  de  Ligne.  Count  Joseph  O'Donell 
stood  in  high  repute  in  Austria  as  a  financier,  and  was,  when  he  died, 
busy  with  a  scheme  for  arranging  the  deranged  national  finances.  The 
Emperor  Francis  ranked  the  Count's  services  and  talents  very  highly, 
and  when  he  died  the  Emperor  wrote  a  letter  of  appreciative  regard 
for  the  deceased  to  his  widow,  on  whom  the  State  conferred  a  large 
pension. 

Goethe  called  the  Prince  de  Ligne  der  Jrohlieksle  Mann  drs 
Jahrhutidtrls,  "  the  cheerfullest  man  of  the  century,"  and  one  whose 
appearance  confirmed  his  reputation.  Goethe  paints  him  as  always 
gay,  intelligent,  and  as  a  man  of  the  world,  who  was  everywhere 
welcome  and  at  home.  Goethe  and  the  prince  had  met  already  in 
1S07,  in  Karlsbad,  and  were  again  together  in  iSro  in  Teplitz.  The 
poet  and  the  prince  eKchanged  verses.     The  prince  wrote  : — 

Jc  V0U5  salue,  Api'lre  el  souiicn  du  bon  goiit, 
Digne  (III  Due  aimable,  lionneur  de  sa  palrle  ! 

The  Due  was,  of  course,  Karl  August.  Goethe  replied  in  the  little 
poem,  "  In  friiher  Zeit,  noch  froh  und  frei," 

And  here  we  may  interpolate  a  pretty  little  story.  Goethe  lost, 
at  the  races,  to  Christine  de  Ligne  (called  in  family  intimacy, 
"  Titine  "),  a  wager  of  two  gulden.  He  paid  his  debt  by  means  of  a 
Wientr-Stadt  Banco-Ztttd,  of  the  value  of  two  gulden ;  but  on  the 
back  of  the  bank-note  the  poet  wrote  ; — 

Ein  kleln  Papier  hast  Du  mir  abgewonncn, 

Ich  war  auf  giosscres  gefiiBst  ; 
Denn  viel  gewinnst  Du  wohl  worauf  Du  nichl  gesonnen, 

Wsrum  du  nichl  geweltcl  hasl. 

Teplii,  d.  2.  Sept.,  iSio. 

Christine  preserved  carefully  the  memorable  little  bank-note, 
which  is  to-day  in  the  possession  of  the  O'Donell  family. 

The  year  1812  belongs  to  that  sad  time  in  which  dismembered 
and  disunited  Germany  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  insolent  French  vKtor, 
It  was,  however,  the  dark  hour  before  the  dawn,  as  tlie  Befreiungs-Krieg, 
the  War  of  Independence,  occurred  in  1813,  which  was  also  the  year 
of  the  battle  of  Leipzig.  In  1812,  Napoleon  projected  his  Russian 
lampaign,  and  he  summoned  tiie  principalities  and  powers  of 
Germany  to  meet  him  at  Dresden,  there  to  receive  his  orders. 
Characteristic  of  the  manner  in  which  Napoleon  treated  German 
royalties  is  the  anecdote  related  of  him  by  Amalia  von  Sachsen. 


At  a  dinner,  after  a  boar-hunt,  at  Morit^burg,  Napoleon  considered 
that  the  enteriaininent  was  lasting  too  long,  and  suddenly  cried  out, 
Que  Von  strz<e  U  dtssert,  a  proceeding  which  greatly  vexed  "  Aunt 
Elizabeth,"  who  saw  herself  compelled  to  forego  her  cutlets. 

In  1810  Napoleon  had  married  Marie  Louise,  daughter  of 
Francis  I.  of  Austria,  and  the  Empress  was  with  the  French  Emperor 
at  Dresden.  On  the  18th  May,  i-Su,  the  Emperor  Francis,  with  his 
young  third  wife,  Jiis  cousin,  the  Empress  Maria  Ludovica  Beatrix, 
also  arrived  at  Dresden,  which  was  full  of  all  the  great  and  little 
German  potentates.  The  Austrian  Empress,  a  daughter  of  the 
,\rchdulLC  Ferdinand  d'Este,  was  born  14th  December,  1787.  She 
was  beautiful  and  charming,  impulsive,  bright,  amiable,  and  had 
singular  tact  and  refinement  When  she  was  in  Dresden  in.1812, 
crowds  used  to  collect  under  her  window  in  order  to  see  the  beautiful 
Empress,  When  General  Berthier  went  to  Vienna  to  ask  for  the 
hand  of  Marie  Louise  for  his  master.  Napoleon,  the  general  was  so 
enchanted  with  the  Empress  that  it  soon  became,  he  said,  high  time 
to  leave  Vienna. 

Madame  dc  Stael  bears  her  testimony  to  the  charm  of  the  fair 
Empress  ;  who,  later,  at  the  Congress  of  Vienna,  won  all  hearts. 
Goethe  says  of  her  that  she  was  extremely  affable,  cheerful  and 
friendly.  He  foimd  that  her  nose  and  chin  were  hereditary,  resem- 
bling those  of  her  race.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  life  and  spirit.  She 
spoke,  he  says,  on  all  sorts  of  subjects ;  and  he  praises  her  for  being 
always  original  and  never  eccentric  In  short,  the  great  poet  enter- 
tained a  feeling  of  romantic  homage  for  the  womanly  worth  and 
charra  of  the  Empress  Maria  Ludovica. 

It  was  the  intention  of  the  Empress,  after  leaving  Dresden,  to 
seek  health  in  the  Bohemian  baths  of  Karlsbad  and  Teplitz.  In  the 
tuiU  of  the  Austrian  Empress,  as  Hqfdame,  or  lady-in-waiting,  travelled 
the  Countess  Josephine  O'Donell.  The  tivo  ladies  came  to  Karlsbad, 
and  there  Goethe,  for  the  first  time,  met  his  future  correspondent. 

Goethe  was  then  occupied  with  geology,  and  busy  with  the  first 
part  of  his  autobiography,  "  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit."  In  Karlsbad, 
on  the  12th  June,  1812,  he  met  his  old  friend,  Fdedrich  Leopold  zu 
Stolberg,  who  writes  :  "  1  had  not  seen  him  (Goethe)  for  eight-and- 
twenty  years,  and  found  him,  naturally,  very  much  changed.  He 
who  used  to  be  so  slim  and  pale,  has  grown  stout  and  rosy,  and  looks 
very  healthy." 

Goeihe  was  extremely  fond  of  the  "  Gelegenheits-Gedicht,"  or 
poem  inspired  by  occasion  ;  and  the  poetic  prodigality  of  his  affluent 
nature  always  tended  to  overflow  into  song.     Hence  we  soon  find 


i 


152  The  Gentleman^s  Magazine. 

him  pouring  forth  song-drops  in  honour  of  the  fair  Empress  who  so 
strongly  impressed  his  imagination. 

He  addressed  a  poem  to  Marie  Louise,  one  to  the  Emperor 
Francis,  and  several  to  his  beloved  Empress.  The  Oesterreichische 
Btobachteri^di  very  old  "  observer")  of  July  i6,  1812,  records  that  the 
Bilrgerschafty  the  municipality  of  Karlsbad,  "  strewed  flowers  in  the 
path  "  of  Allerhdchstdieselben^  t\e,  the  Emperor  and  Empress,  in  the 
shape  of  poems  by  Se  Excellenz  der  Sachsen-  Weimarsche  geheinu 
Rath  und  Staatsminister^  Herr  von  Goethe,  You  see  that  an  en- 
lightened journal  gives  to  a  German  poet  his  full  official  title.  The 
stanzas  to  the  Emperor  were  to  be  handed  to  His  Majesty  by  die 
Damm-Klaray  that  is  by  Clara,  daughter  of  Dr.  Damm,  but  the 
embarrassed  young  lady  mistook  the  Archduke  Ferdinand  for  his 
brother,  and  Goethe  had  to  rush  forward  to  put  the  httle  mistake 
right. 

In  Teplitz,  Goethe  read  poetry  to  the  Empress,  and  chose  chiefly, 
perhaps  generously,  the  writings  of  Schiller.  The  Empress  was  fond 
of  theatricals,  and  she  herself  acted  in  private  performances.  To 
please  her,  Goethe  wrote  in  Teplitz,  in  two  days,  a  little  one-act 
piece  called  die.  Wette  (the  Wager),  and  the  parts  were  distributed, 
but  the  piece  was  shipwrecked  on  technical  difficulties,  and  never  was 
actually  played.  The  scenery  required  exceeded  the  resources  of  a 
mere  "  Bath,"  such  as  Teplitz  was,  and  a  rather  complex  room, 
divided  into  two  divisions,  from  roof  to  stage,  could  not  be  managed. 
Goethe  remained  some  weeks,  on  this  occasion,  at  Teplitz.  The 
visit  gave  him  great  delight  He  was  absorbed  in  work  that  he 
loved,  and  yet  had  the  society — which  he  also  loved — of  such  fair 
and  gracious  ladies  as  Maria  Ludovica  and  Josephine  O'DonelL 
The  party  went  asunder  with  great  regret 

We  must  now  proceed  to  glance  slightly  at  the  treasure  trove  of 
the  letters.  The  letter  to  Christine  de  Ligne  is  unimportant ;  but  it 
enclosed  two  sketches  by  Goethe,  of  Bilin,  and  the  open  space  before 
its  gate.  Goethe,  by  the  way,  generally  sketched  in  sepia  on  blue 
paper. 

The  first  letter  to  the  liebey  neue  Frcundinn^  the  Countess  O'Donell, 
is  very  short,  and  occupies  only  one  side  of  a  quarto  sheet  of  paper. 
It  is  dated  August,  181 2,  and  deals  with  his  wish  to  see  his  little 
piece,  die  Wctte^  produced  upon  the  stage.  The  second  letter  is 
rather  longer.  It  is  addressed  to  his  verehrtesie  Freundinn^  and 
belongs  also  to  181 2.  He  expresses  his  regret  at  hearing  of  the 
illness  of  the  Empress,  and  begs  for  full  information.  He  asks  to  be 
remembered  to  Her  Majesty  as  her  dankbarsien  Knechty  "  her  most 


Another  Goethe  CorrespondiHce. 


1 

:d  that  yotir^H 


pateM  servant."  He  tells  the  Countess,  "  be  assured  that  you/| 
friendship  is  a  great  add  unexpected  gain  to  my  life."  He  encloses 
i»o  drawings,  which  are  still  in  existence,  entitled  Sainie  Marie  du 
Fml,  C.B.  Aoul  i8it;  and  Sainte  Marie  de  la  Harpe,  C.B.  AoUt 
i5i:.    Both  are  signed  Goethe. 

The  next  lelter  is  dated  Jena,  November  24,  1812.     He  again 
ilWes  tenderly  to  his  Empress ;  and  speaks  of  die  EinpfdngHchkeit 
far  sinnlicfie  Eindriicie,  der  ick  so  viel  GuUs  verdanke;  that  "  sensi- 
bility to  sensuous  impressions  to  which  I  owe  so  much."     He  adds, 
lb«  dictating  a  letter  seems  more  to  resemble  speaking,  vivn  voce, 
ta    with  the  person  addressed.     He  explains  that  he  never  finds  himself 
^P  more  perplexed  than  when  he  writes  a  letter  with  his  own  hand, 
V  bcQuse  the  hand  cannot  work  so  fast  as  the  thoughts  ^ow,  so  that 
\        Iw  is  led  into  countless  blunders  of  orthography  and  grammar.     His 
Tmjiient  orthographical  carelessness  is  well  known,  and  here  he  gives 
the  explanation  of  it. 

In  1813  Goethe  wrote  his  Shakspeare  und  kein  Ende,  and  had 
«n!  to  tbe  Countess  the  first  part  of  that    Wakrheit  and  Dichlutig 
ThJcii  he  terms  his  bhgraphische  Mast/iierade,  or  biography  in  a  mask. 
Many  of  the  allusions  in  his  letter  to  the  Countess  have  now  fallen 
daik,  and  it  is,  for   instance,    no   longer  possible  to  identify  the 
f^\Uhb!iilfarbenc  Seiibrelte,  or  "  peach- red- coloured  waiting- maid,"  to 
■hom  he  refers.     The  year  1813  was  also  his  Hegira,  or  Bight  from 
distracted  Weimar,  then  occupied  by  the  French.     The  comraunica- 
lion  between  Bohemia  and  Thuringia  was  interrupted,  and  Goethe's 
letter  shows   how    strongly  he   was  depressed  by  political  events. 
T  times  came,  and  he  returned  joyfully  to  his  loved  Weimar. 
S  busy  with  the  continuation  of  his  autobiography  \  and  he 
r*rites  fully  about  Madame  de  Stai-I's  {he  calls  her  Frau  von  Slahl) 
^k  on  Germany.    The  Countess  was  engaged  with  the  study  of 
f^oglisb,  and  Goethe  encourages  lier,  speaking  of  the  "  enormous 
'fs^*sures,"  of  the  "  wealth "  of   English    literature.      He    praises 
'^Idsmith's  "  Deserted  Village,"  as  a  work  which  he  passionately 
"Vcs.  He  always  laid  stress  upon  the  "melancholy  power  "which  finds 
**pression  in  our  literature ;   and  he  cited  elsewhere  as  peculiarly 
icteristic  of  this  quality  the  well-known  sad  lines — 
Then  old  age  and  eipetielice.  hand  in  hand, 
Lead  him  lo  dealb,  and  make  him  underslanJ, 
Afler  a  search  90  painful  and  ed  lung, 
Thut  all  his  life  he  has  been  in  thu  wioii|j. 

Karl   August  writes,  with  his  rough  energy  of  badinage,   to  tlie 
Mintess,  of  Goethe,  that  "  il  lie  vous  est  pas  fidik.  Coetht  el  mot  i-out 
LViii.    HO.  iSja 


I 


The  Genileman's  Magasme. 

quitUnt  pour  deux  yieux  bkusi  ce  ;S  /uiUet,  1813."  The  blue  eyes 
were  those  of  the  Fiirsiin  Liechtenstein.  On  Fcbniary  8, 1 8 1 4,  Goethe 
writes,  aliuding  to  the  delay  in  the  production  of  ihc  third  volume 
of  his  biography  :  "  Fortunately  I  am  an  old  writer,  who  does  not 
care  much  for  publicity.  A  young  author  would  be  driven  mad  with 
impatience."    He  speaks  elsewhere  of  his  "  dedain  du  siuc^s," 

The  Prince  de  Ligne,  who  said  that  "  Le  Cc/igj-h  [de  Vienne\  danse, 
mais  U  ne  marche  fas,"  died  December  13,  1814,  and  gave  to  the 
Congress  the  spectacle  of  the  funeral  of  an  Austrian  Fie  Id.  Marshal, 
It  is  of  interest  for  us  that  Sir  Sidney  Smith  appeared  in  the  pro- 
cession, as  an  English  admiral,  on  horseback.  Goethe  was  now 
occupied  in  the  Oriental  studies  which  led  to  his  IViul-estluhe 
Divan ;  and  a  long  break  in  the  correspondence  with  the  Countess 
occurred.  The  Empress  died  April  7,  1816,  and  the  loss  of  her 
plunged  Goethe  into  a  condition  of  grief  the  after-feeling  of  which 
never  {as  he  says)  left  him. 

Grafin  Titine  asked  Goethe  if,  as  a  boy,  he  had  been  conscious  of 
his  poetical  powers,  and  had  foreseen  his  fame.  He  replied  in  those 
well-known  lines,  beginning 

Als  der  Knabe  nach  der  Schule, 

in  which  lie  explains  that  he  then  thought  it  would  be  a  fine  ibing 
merely  to  write  well,  but  that  he  never  dreamed  of  writing  anythiDg 
that  could  live  and  be  known  in  all  countries. 

The  son  of  "  Titine  "  is  the  present  Count,  and  owner  of  the 
letters  published  by  Dr.  Werner. 

On  March  ig,  1820,  Goethe  writes  to  the  Countess  that  he  "lives 
in  memories,"  and  therefore  prizes  so  highly  her  friendship  and  her 
thought  of  him.     On  May  i,  1820,  he  addressed  to  her  from  Karls- 
bad the  lines  "  Au  Grafin  O'Donell"  which  begin  : — 
}lier,  n-Q  nocb  Ibl  Flali  geaannt  wild, 

The  two  last  letters  (17  and  18),  both  short  and  unimportant, 

are  dated  respectively  May  19  and  June  30,  1823;  and  then 

the  rest  is  silence. 

The  correspondence  ceased.  The  Countess  died  August  5,  1833. 
Her  letters  became  the  property  of  her  son,  Count  Heinrich 
O'Donell,  and  were  inherited  by  his  nephew.  Count  Moritz  O'Donell. 
Once,  in  i8t8,  Goethe  met  the  Countess  in  Franzensbrunn.  Their 
talk  was  chiefiy  of  that  Empress  whom  both  had  loved  so  well. 
During  the  eleven  years  covered  by  the  correspondence,  Goethe  pro- 
duced the   West-ostliche  Divan,   IVahrlieit  und  Die/iliing,  while  his 


Another  Goethe  Correspondence. 


155 


^  periodical  ^wM/K/irf^/)'.«-///«m  appeared  from  181C  to  1828.  In  1S21 
was  published  the  first  edition  of  Wilhelm  Master's  Wandtrjahre.  In 
1816  Goethe  lost  his  wife;  in  1817  his  son  married  Otlilie  v. 
Pogwisch.  Lotte — Werther's  Lotle — then  a  widow  of  sixty,  with  twelie 
children,  visited  in  1816  her  former  lover,  whom  she  found  trans- 
formed into  a  stately  minister.  Not  till  1827  did 'Fiau  von  Stein 
die ;  nor  did  Goethe  lose  KaH  August  until  1828. 

In  the  summer  of  1822  he  met,  in  Marienbad,  Ulrike  von  Levezow. 
She  was,  Diinizer  tells  us,  fifteen  years  of  aye,  while  the  poet  was 
seventy-three ;  but,  notwithstanding  this  terrible  disparity  of  years, 
the  pair  fell  in  love.  Conscious,  perhaps,  of  the  risk  of  marrying  so 
yoong  a  girl  (the  marriage  was  currently  talked  of),  and  dreading 
possibly  ridicule,  Goethe  tore  himself  away;  but  his  heart  bled  at 
parting  with  Ulrike.  She  seems  to  have  been  of  singular  charm  and 
fascination,  with  a  wonderful  voice  and  great  sensibility  of  sym- 
pathetic feeling.  The  affair  with  Madame  Szymanowska  was  the  last 
imaginative  passion  of  the  poet,  who,  when  old  in  years,  remained 
)'oung  in  heart.  He  gave  voice  to  the  sorrow  with  which  he  parted 
from  Ulrike  in  the  Aeolsklagen.  In  1823  the  friend  of  his  youth, 
Crafin  Auguste  von  Bemstorfl^,  wrote  to  Goethe  to  "  convert "  him  and 
to  beg  him  to  repair  any  injury  that  he  might  have  done  to  the  souls 
of  others  by  his  writings,  He  replied,  proudly,  that  during  his  whole 
life  he  had  meant  honestly  to  others  as  to  himself,  and  that  in  all  his 
earthly  strivings  he  had  always  kept  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  Highest. 
Ke  declared  himself,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  a  Protestant. 

I  have  tried  to  give,  necessarily  in  great  brevity,  some  idea  of 
these  O'Donell  letters,  together  with  a  hiuricd  glance  at  the  time, 
surroundings,  and  productivity  of  Goethe  during  the  period  of  their 
production.  The  correspondence  is  not  without  interest.  It  shows 
one  facet  of  a  many-sided  mind ;  it  presents  us  with  a  little  graceful 
episode  in  Goethe's  long  life  of  science  and  of  song,  of  wisdom, 
genius,  nobleness,  fame,  love. 

H.   SCHtJTZ   WILSON. 


I 


IS« 


The  Genlienian's  Alagasine. 


SOME  POETS'  HORSES. 

IT  is  a  very  curious  fact  indeed  that  poets  see  nothing  of  the 
natural  animal  in  the  horse.  As  a  beast,  a  quadruped,  ihey 
absolutely  ignore  it  It  is  only  in  its  artificial  varieties  that  they 
recognise  it  at  all,  and  even  then  so  seldom  as  to  surprise  the 
student  of  these  pages.  About  the  horse  particular,  individual  steeds 
of  fame,  a  volume  might  easily  be  gathered  from  our  poets.  But  of 
the  creature  in  nature  they  say  nothing.  The  beast  has  become  so 
thoroughly  relative  that  it  has  lost  all  individuality.  It  is  either  the 
other  half  of  a  cavalier,  a  warrior,  a  war-chariot,  a  plough,  a  coach, 
or  a  cart,  or  something  else,  that  it  cannot  be  contemplated  apart 
from  its  rider,  its  accoutrements,  or  the  vehicle  it  draws.  All  other 
animals  have  characters  of  their  own.  The  horse  has  none.  It  varies 
only  according  to  the  kind  of  man  on  its  back  or  the  kind  of  thing 
behind  it.  Attach  a  plough  to  it,  and  it  becomes  at  once  "  heavy  " 
and  "  dull "  ;  set  a  soldier  upon  it,  and  it  is  "  fiery  "  and  "  proud." 
When  ladies  ride,  their  horses  turn  to  "  milk-white  palfreys "  ;  the 
hero  of  a  poem,  whether  knight  or  highwayman,  bestrides,  as  a  nile, 
a  "  courser."  There  are  also  "  swift-heeled  Arabians,"  and  "  barbs," 
and  "jennets "  ;  but  these  are  not  meant  for  real  horses. 

There  is,  of  course,  nothing  surprising  in  the  fact  that  poets  have 
but  little  in  sympathy  with  stable-boys  or  book-makers.  When  they 
do  speak  of  grooms  they  rate  them  as  second-class  horses,  and  the 
"  horsey  "  gentleman  as  an  inferior  amateur  groom.  This  is  probably 
as  it  should  be ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  when  we  remember  that  nearly 
all  history  has  been  made  on  horseback,  and  that  it  is  to  the  character 
of  that  animal  that  man  is  indebted  for  the  moiety  of  his  achievements, 
it  strikes  strangely  to  find  the  poets  so  consistently  disregarding  the 
strongly  marked  individuality  of  the  horse.  Its  sympathy  with  human 
beings — aa  is  the  case  with  tlie  poets'  dogs  also— has,  doubdess,  much 
to  do  with  the  doubling-up  of  the  animal  with  its  master.  'Whatever 
nature  it  may  show,  it  is  always  in  accordance  with  that  of  its  rider. 
Its  temper  always  matches  its  trappings,  is  strictly  in  keeping  with 
its  harness. 


J 


Some  Pods  Horses. 


1 


Ooce  upon  a  time — so  ihe  Greeks  had  the  story ' — Athena  and 
Poseidon  contended  for  the  honour  of  being  the  best  friend  of 
hiiraanity,  and  to  clinch  his  claim  the  ocean-god  created  for  the  use 
of  man  the  horse.  Olympus  had  to  arbitrate  between  the  rival 
divinities,  and  eventually  decreed  in  favour  of  Athena's  olive-tree, 
"tor,"  said  Zeus,  "1  foresee  that  man  will  pervert  the  gift  of 
Poseidon  to  the  purposes  of  war." 

Appeal,  however,  lies  from  the  judgment  of  the  Thunderer  to  the 
ullimatc  voice  of  history,  and  if  "in  the  fulness  of  time"  we  could  ask 
llie  question  again.  Eternity  would  certainly  reverse  the  decree  of  the 
Olympian  bench,  for — taking  one  thing  with  another — the  horse  has 
done  fir  more  for  man  than  salad  oil. 

In  myth  it  is  always  noble.  No  monsler  form  in  the  classics  has 
dignity  except  the  centaur,  the  Asvinau  of  the  Hindoos.  The  con- 
junction of  man  and  horse  in  one  being  was  not  degrading. 

To  complete  the  majesty  of  deities,  they  rode  or  drove  horses. 
In  primitive  legend  they  go  in  pairs— the  black  steed  of  Night  with 
the  grey  of  the  Morning,  the  ted  horse  of  Carnage  and  the  white 
of  Death.  In  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset  there  glitter  the  peacock- 
feathered  manes  of  the  coursers  of  the  sky.  The  spirit  of  the  Whirlwind 
sweeps  along  charioted  by  a  swarthy  team.  Thunder  and  Lightning, 
the  terrific  Dioscuri,ride  in  the  heavens  upon  their  neighing,  fire -breath- 
ing suUions.  The  rain-go<J  Indras  comes  up  drawn  by  the  Rohits, 
"  the  brown  ones  " ;  the  Dawn  has  harnessed  to  her  car  three  dappled 
greys.  From  the  stables  of  Asgard  issue  Hrimfaxe  and  Skimfaxe, 
the  steeds  of  Day  ami  Night,  just  as  from  the  stalls  of  Olympus  the 
Hours  lead  forth  Xanthos  "the  golden  "and  Belios  "  the  mottled," 
and  Memnon's  mother,  "Tithonia  conjux,"  springs  from  bed  to 
chariot  and,  shaking  the  dewy  reins,  Lampas  and  Phaethon  whirl  her 
upwards  through  the  reddening  skies  to  awaken  the  gods  and  men. 

The  spirits  are  all  mounted — "  Heaven's  chembim,  hors'd  upon 
Ihe  sightless  coursers  of  the  air  "^  night -roaming  ghosts,  by  saucer- 
eyeballs  known  (d/y)— the  Kelpy  on  its  water-palfrey  {Wordsworth) 
— the  angels  of  death,  whose  "  coal-black  steeds  wait  for  men  "  {Jean 
Inge/eui) — the  fays  of  Collins  on  milk-white  steeds,  and  of  Shelley 
on  "  the  coursers  of  the  air,"  the  elfin  king  of  Leyden  on  his  coal- 
blaclc  horse  that  goes  with  noiselesss  hoofs.  Ossian's  steeds— "bound- 
ing sons  of  the  hill,"  like  every  other  animal  in  that  tiresome  impos- 
ture— are  wreaths  of  mist  But  more  substantial,  in  their  way,  are 
the  night-steeds  of  the  moon  in  Campbell,  the  "  pale  horses "  of 

'  tlnw  misenbly  the  poets  use  this  beautiful  episode  \  Sec,  for  inslsnce,  Con- 
pcve  (To  the  EatlofCodolphin),  orPamell  ("The  Hoi5eTinA\.\\cO\\1%"V 


I 


The  GentlematH s  Magazine. 


famine,  war,  and  plague  (hfalkt),  the  white  horse,  splashed  wilh 
blood,  which  Anarchy  rides,  in  Shelley,  and  ihe  "  pale  horse,"  which 
is  the  steed  of  death  in  a  score  of  poets.  Coleridge  alone  makes 
fun  of  it : — 

A  I'olhecary  on  a  white  harsc. 

Rode  )iy  on  his  vocations. 
Ami  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 
Death  in  tlie  Revelations. 

But  it  is  reserved  for  Eliza  Cook  to  speak  of  "  the  brave  iron- 
gray,  which  is  EUrnity's  Arab  !  " 

The  Oriental  horse-myths  have  their  exponent  in  Sir  WQIiam 
Jones,  whose  "  green-haired  steeds,"  "  with  verdant  manes,"  gallop 
through  the  skies.  "  The  seven  coursers  green  "  of  Love  and  Bounty, 
"  with  many  an  agate  hoofed,  and  pasterns  fringed  with  pearl,"  and 
those  others,  "  the  steeds  of  noon's  effulgent  king,  that  shake  their 
green  manes,  and  blaze  with  rubied  eyes,"  are  strictly  in  sympathy 
with  Hindoo  tradition.  Campbell,  on  the  same  theme,  wanders,  as 
usual,  into  "  sunless  skies  "  of  error. 

Of  horses  more  specifically,  historically,  individual,  there  is  a 
multitude,  of  course.  Starting  from  the  commencement,  there  is  the 
wild  Scythian,  supposed  (by  Phineas  Fletcher)  to  drink  the  blood  of 
the  horse  he  is  riding — "  yet  worse  I  this  fiend  makes  his  own  flesh  his 
meat " — and  the  horses  of  ancient  tradition,  such  as  that  "  wondrous 
horse  of  brass  on  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride  ;"  and  so  we  pass, 
through  the  classic  steeds  of  Greece  and  Rome,  the  steeds  of  Cssar 
and  Alexander,  to  those  of  medieval  heroes,  Arthur  and  the  Cid ; 
and  so  along  the  picketed  lines  of  Rhenish  steeds,  knightly  coursers, 
and  milk-white  palfreys  of  the  old-ballad  age,  to  thehorseofMazeppa, 
and  the  "  Tartar  steeds  "  of  the  revolt  of  Islam. 

The  horses  of  St.  Mark  and  of  Pharaoh— of  which  Miriam  sang 
when  she  went  up  before  the  host,  with  all  the  women  with  timbrels 
and  dances — of  Darius  which  neighed  him  into  the  throne  of  Persia — 
of  Diomed,  anthropophagous  brutes,  "  Thracian  steeds  with  human 
carnage  wild," — 


— of  Nereus,  the  si 
Dan  Phosbus — 


i-horses,  a  very  favourite  fancy  of  the  poets — of 


When  he  doth  lighten  up  the  golden  reigni 
And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 
His  snoning  loui 


J 


Smie  Poets   Horses. 

-the  air-bred  and  wi'nd-begotten  steeds  of  Thrace — and  ihe  winged 
stepla  of  Perseus  and  Endytnion,  all  the  "  otlier  foalcs  of  Pegasus, 
his  li>Tide."  So,  slep  by  step,  pass  to  Black  Besses  of  the  Heath  and 
RmJ,  the  chargers  of  our  Joan-of-i\rcs  and  other  warriors  of  his- 
tory, of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  other  sovereigns,  to  the  Ro^inantes, 
(Irialcs,  and  Dobbins,  of  Cervantes,  Hudibras,  and  Syntax,  to  hacks 
of  John  Gilpin  and  the  "  Parish  Doctor,"  and  many  a  local  hero  and 
iiemine  beside  whose  jades  are  the  subjects  of  a  passing  jest. 

I  remeraber  having  seen  somewhere  a  picture  of  Adam,  in  the 
gart)  of  Eden,  riding  a  bare-backed  mustang,  a  lion  gambolling  by 
hiiade.  But  in  Holy  Writ  the  horse  appears  in  only  one  aspect — as 
the  irar-horse.  "He  saith  among  the  trumpets,  Hal  ha!  and  he 
Hndleth  the  battle  afar  off,  the  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the 
itiouting."  ' 

In  Genesis  the  name  does  not  occur  at  all.  Nor,  as  a  matter  of 
6ct|  could  it  do  so,  seeing  that  the  first  "horse"  (the  first  that 
Jocnce  knows  of)  was  a  lillle  five-toed,  sharp-nosed  creature,  much 
loo  small  for  a  man  of  even  our  degenerate  stature  to  ride  upon,  and 
otherwise  also  unsuitable  for  a  steed ;  and  it  is,  therefore,  very  probable 
I  "  the  first  man  "  never  was  on  horseback. 

Yet  the  use  of  the  animal  dates  back  to  a  prodigious  antiquity.  The 
Assymn  sculptures  show  us  high-bred  and  carefully  caparisoned 
cbo^eis,  three  thousand  years  and  more  ago.  Nor  is  it  at  all  Hkely 
that  they  were  the  first  to  train  them,  for  the  horse  is  a  native  of 
Central  Asia,  and  the  early  Arj'an  is  hardly  likely  to  have  wasted 
Buch  a  useful  beast.  At  any  rale,  that  perfection  to  which  the 
ertremely  ancient  Assyrian  monuments  show  us  that  the  breeding 
had  attained  some  eighteen  hundred  years  before  Christ,  must 
ttrtainly  have  taken  a  long  time  in  development 

The  poets,  therefore,  do  not  take  more  than  their  usual  licence 
"fen  they  describe  a  primitive  race  catching  the  wild  horse  and 

(iking  it  in  to  their  use.     Thus  in  "  Before  the  Flood  "  :— 
With  Hying  foreluck  and  dishevelled  mane. 
They  caught  ihe  wild  sleed  prancine  o'ct  the  plain. 
For  war  or  pastime  reined  his  fiery  force ! 
Flcel  as  the  wind  he  stretched  along  ihe  course, 
Or,  loudJy  neighing  at  Ihe  trumpet's  sound, 
Wiih  hoofe  ot  thunder  smote  the  indented  ground. 


01 


The  colt  "  with  heels  undipped  and  shaggy  mane  promiss,"  and 

Job'l  splendid  poem  has  incited  several  poets  (Quarles,  Young,  B 
*-»)ceJ  to  altempi  the  same  theme,  which,  however,  gains  no  accession  uf  beauty 
Bl^^werfrom  iheir  paraphrases. 


i 


The  Cenikmads  Magazine. 


" nothing  conscious  of  liis  fulure  toils,"  "approving  all  pastures* 
his  own,"  {Hurdis),  grows  up,  and  for  a  whUe  longer  retains  his 
liberty. 

Wanlon 
lie  skimE  the  sp^ioas  meadows, 
Then  stops  and  snoits,  and  ihrowing  np  his  heels, 
Slarls  to  the  vo!imiary  race  again. 

But  in  due  time  he  becomes  a  full-grown  horse. 

Then  think  hoiv  short  the  lime,  since,  joyous,  free, 
Me  mamed  the  mead,  or,  by  his  mother's  side. 
Attended  plough  or  harrow,  scampering  gay  ; 
And  thinlc  how  soon  his  years  of  youth  and  ttrcnglh 
Will  fly,  and  leave  him  lo  that  wretched  doom 
Which  ever  (erminates  the  horse's  life. 
Toil  more  and  more  severe,  as  age,  decay. 
Disease,  unnerve  his  limbs,  litl  sinking  faint 
Upon  the  road,  the  brutal  stroke  resounds. 

The 'phrase   "which   ever"  is    not,  however,   strictly  correct 
England,  whatever,  according  to  Grahame,  may  be  the  universal  rule 
in  Scotland.     For,  as  Cowper  says : — 

The  veteran  steed  excused  his  task  at  length, 

In  kind  compassion  of  his  failing  strength, 

And  turned  into  the  park  or  mead  lo  graze. 

Exempt  from  future  service  all  his  days, 

There  feels  a  pleasure  perfect  in  its  kind. 
This  may  be  accepted  as  .ilmost  the  total  sum  of  the  natural 
horse  in  poetry.  That  episode  in  Venus  and  Adonis,  where  the 
conduct  of  the  young  boar-hunter's  steed  suggests  to  the  quick-witted 
goddess  an  argument  from  analogies, has  suggested  several  exaggerated 
descriptions  of  the  stallion  ai  large,  but  they  are  scarcely  sketches 
from  the  life. 

In  the  chase,  Somerville  of  course  excepted,  the  horse  docs  not 
occupy  the  prominent  place  that  might  have  been  expected.  Hunting 
is  not  a  favonrite  pastime  of  the  poet  He  does  not  ride  as  Byron 
says  Don  Juan  did  : — 

So  that  hia  horse,  or  cha^r,  hunter,  back. 
Knew  that  he  had  a  rider  on  his  back. 

And  they  skirt  the  subject,  except  so  far  as  sentiment  goes,  with  the 
utmost  delicacy.  Some,  indeed,  contemn  "  the  squire  "  who  takes  a 
pride  in  his  steed. 

Somerville,  of  course,  is  a  unique  exception,  and  his  apostrophes 
of  the  "  brave  youths "  who  go  a-hunting  are  delightful  rubbish]  as 
the  opening  rhapsody  goes  to  show  ; — 


4 


Same  PoeU  Horses. 

Hail,  happy  Briloia  I  highly  Tavur'd  isle, 

And  Heaven's  peculiar  care  !  to  thee  'tis  giv'n 

To  Irun  the  sprightly  stefd,  more  fleet  than  those 

B^ot  by  Winds,  or  the  celcstinl  bictcl 

That  bore  the  great  Pelides  lh(o'  tlic  press 

Of  heroes  arm'd,  Bod  broke  their  crowded  ranks. 

But  he  knew  &.  good  horse  as  well  as  Hurdis  did,  and  was  a  far 
bcttei  sportsman  than  he  was  a  poet.  For  the  utter  humiliation  of 
tte  noble  brute  read  Eliza  Cook. 

The  race-hoRe  finds  but  few  friends  among  the  poets.  T!iey  see 
only  the  cruelty  of  the  sport.  Tlie  jockeys  are  "  murderers,"  and  the 
Minials  come  in  with  "  rivers  of  sweat  and  blood  flowing  from  gordd 
fiifcs."  They  admire  the  animal  "  with  his  nostrils  thin,  blown  abroad 
by  the  pride  within,"  but  they  avoid  it 

The  war-horse  finds  more  frequent  and  appreciative  reference,  but 
ibe  poets  cannot  shake  Job  off.  The  few  lines  of  the  Patriarch's 
poem  stretch  farther  than  all  their  laboured  eulogies,  just  as  the  staff- 
ofMoses  reached  farther  than  the  linked  sceptres  of  all  the  K.ings  of 
l^om.  It  neighs  and  paws  and  snorts,  but  it  gets  no  further,  after 
^'Uiian  the  sjth  verse  of  the  39th  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Job. 
"Taboring  the  ground  "  is,  however,  an  excellent  conceit  of  Quarles, 
^nd  shows  an  unusual  judgment  in  plagiarising, 

The  poet's  cart-horse  is  a  most  dismal  creation.     Not  long  ago 

'^elty  to  animals  was  much  more  prevalent  than  it  is  now^thanks 

'^  a  Society  that  has  the  eyes  of  Argus,  the  funds  of  Crcesus,  and  the 

'i^paihy  of  the  country— and  from  Chaucer  to  Wordsworth  the 

'^'^ught-horse  is  a  miserable  brute,  habitually  ill-treated  and  djing 

"Otti  cruel  over-work.      It  is  "as  lenc  as  is  a  rake"  {Chaucer); 

*H  bones  and  leather "  {Butler)  ;    "  a  wretched  unlucky  corse  " 

("« jwaj') ;  "  toil-worn  "  { Graham^  who  seems  to  have  had  an  excep- 

"Oniljy   bad   opinion    of    Scotch    treatment  of    horses).      Cowper 

"•^plores    the    carter    to    spare   his   "  poor  beasts " ;  Wordsworth 

■^Seeches  the  waggoner  to  be  mindful  of  his  responsibilities.     Both 

these  poets,  however,  pay  a  tribute  of  respect  to  the  draught-horse's 

•illingness,  while  those  who  know  him  better— Hurdis,  Clare,  and 

"'oomficld,  for  instance — admire   it,   "patient  of  the  slow-paced 

"■^■JO's  delay  ■"  or  as 

the  bill  lliej-slrsin, 
the  iniii  chain. 

_      Joanna  Baillie  has  a  bitter  passage  :  is  there  still  all  the  old 
l™H  about  it? 


i62  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

^Vhat  forms  arc  these  wilh  Icon  galled  sides  ?    In  jtaa 

Their  Uie<!  and  ropy  sinews  sorely  strain 

HcDped  loads  lo  dmw,  with  liuh  and  goad  urged  on. 

They  were  in  other  days,  but  laLely  gone, 

The  useful  servants,  dearly  prized,  of  those 

Who  to  their  failing  oge  give  no  repose — 

Of  thankless,  heartless  owners.     Then  full  oft 

Their  andicd,  graceful  necks,  so  sleek  and  soft, 

Beneath  a  master's  stroking  hand  would  rear 

Right  proudly,  as  they  neighed  his  voice  (a  hear. 

But  now  how  changed  !     And  what  marred  things  are  these, 

Starred,  hooted,  scaired,  denied  or  food  or  ease  ; 

Whose  humbled  looks  their  bitter  thraldom  shew, 

Familiar  with  the  kick,  the  pinch,  the  blow  ? 

Alas  !  in  this  sad  fellowship  are  found 

The  playfiil  kitten  and  the  faithful  hound. 
In  metaphors  and  analogies,  similes  and  morals  di^wn  from  an 
original  so  exceptionally  promising  as  the  horse,  the  poets  show  them- 
■selves  strangely  self-denying  and  even  parsimonious.  In  a  great 
measure  the  dog  forestalls  it.  Moreover,  when  comparisons  of  courage, 
speed,  or  a  generous  spirit  are  sought,  lliere  are  the  poets'  lions  and 
eagles  to  draw  upon.  The  horse,  therefore,  is  made  an  adjunct  in 
description  rather  than  a  moral  auxiliary.  It  adds  a  material  feature 
to  the  scene,  but  affords  no  lesson.  The  poets,  in  fact — for  their  ' 
sympathy  with  Nature  is  usually  only  superficial — do  not  recognise 
the  horse  as  an  animal.  It  is  an  equipment,  an  adornment,  furniture. 
Herbert  is  a  very  striking  exception  ;  he  has  a  whole  quiver  fiill  of 
equine  "jacula."  Thus,  for  example,  "a  jade  eats  as  much  as  a  good 
horse  ;  "  "  Who  lets  his  wife  go  to  every  feast,  and  his  horse  drink  at 
every  water,  shall  neither  have  good  wife  nor  horse ; "  "  The  master's 
eye  fattens  the  horse  ; "  "  For  want  of  a  nail  the  shoe  is  lost :  for  want 
of  a  shoe  the  horse  is  lost :  for  want  of  a  horse  the  rider  is  lost." 
"The  horse  thinks  one  thing,  and  he  that  saddles  him  another," 
"  Speed  without  pains,  a  horse."  These  must  suffice.  Cowper 
uses  the  metaphor  "pack-horse  constancy,"  and  Churchill,  though 
with  deficient  skill,  utilises  the  colt  as  a  simile  for  "  loose  Digression," 
that  "spurring  connexion  and  her  formal  yoke,  Bounds  through 
the  forest  and  wanders  far  astray."  The  colt,  indeed,  furnishes  an 
analogy  to  many  things  and  persons  that  depreciate  it,  for  the  poets 
too  often  forget  that,  after  all,  innocence  in  the  young  beast  sets  it 
quite  apart  from  the  deliberate  obliquities  of  reasoning  humanity. 

THIL,  ROBINSON, 


J 


i63 


THROUGH  THE  BREACH  IN  THE 
BALKAN. 

DOES  one  Englishman  in  a  million  know  what  or  where  the 
Isker  Gorge  is  ?    For  the  benefit  of  the  many  ignorant  let  us 
**plain  first  its  whereabouts. 

The  southern  end  of  this  gorge  is  not  ten  miles  distant  from  Sofia, 
"liich  for  many  hundreds  of  years  lias  never  ceased  to  be  a  place 
of  considerable  local  importance  in  European  Turkey,  whether  as  the 
"'d  residence  of  the  Roumeli  Beylerbeys,  as  chief  town  of  a  Mutes- 
Wiflit  from  the  beginning  of  this  century  until  shortly  before  the 
'*st  Russian  \Var  ;  then,  again,  as  capital  of  a  province  for  a  few- 
Jtars ;  as  the  seat  of  temporary  Government  during  the  Russian 
Occupation  ;  and,  finally,  since  1879,  as  the  capital  of  free  Bulgaria. 
'"he  Northern  end  oi  this  same  gorge  lies  close  to  the  import- 
*1t  trading  town  of  Wratsa,  between  which  and  Sofia  it  offers  by  far 
"le  shortest  route  to  those  who  do  not  fear  its  dangers  and  difficuliies. 
■^nd  yet  it  remained  practically  unknown  to  geographers  and  unvisited 
'*y  European  travellers  until  the  year  1871,  when  Kanilz,  an  Austrian 
Engineer  and  author  of  a  work  upon  Bulgaria,  was  the  first  to  partially 
**tpiore  and  survey  the  northern  or  Wratsa  portion  of  the  defile. 

It  is  not  that  the  Isker  Gorge  is  deficient  in  interest  or  natural 

,~^auty.      Its  wild  and  original  scenery  is  unrivalled   in  European 

■*^Virkey,  and  its  conformationoffersproblemsof  the  deepest  interest  to 

■"*«  consideration  of  topographers  and  engineers.    For  the  Isker  here 

"^^cceeds  in  making  the  only  breach  in  the  otherwise  unbroken  lam- 

**^iTt  of  the  Balkans,  and  thus  gives  to  Bulgaria  a  large  and  fertile 

^^■fc'ovince,  and  a  capital  which  would  not  otherwise  have  been  hers, 

*  *i  forming  the  Principality,  the  Powers  decided  to  add  to  the  Vilayet 

^^I  the  Danube  the  watersheds  of  the  streams  which  flow  into  the 

^^anube,  and  the  Isker,  which  rises  far  to  the  south  of  the  Balkans,  on 

^^e  Macedonian  frontier,  thus  burrowing  its  way  by  what  looks  like  a 

*Veak  of  nature  through  the  great  mountain  chain,  altered  the  destinies 

^^the  districts  of  SoRa  and  Kiistendil. 

How  this  has  happened  is  still  a  doubtful  point,  and  must  remain 


164  The  Genthmans  Magazim. 

so  until  the  question  has  been  settled  by  an  expert  Some  visitors 
attribute  the  cleft  to  a  convulsion  of  nature,  while  others  explain  it 
by  the  action  of  water,  on  the  supposition  that  the  basin  of  Sofia  held 
in  bygone  ages  a  great  lake,  the  overflow  of  which,  banning  at  a 
much  higher  level,  in  process  of  time  scooped  out  the  chamiel  through 
which  the  Isker  now  escapes. 

This  natural  railway  cutting,  through  a  chain  of  mountains  upwards 
of  6,000  feet  in  height,  could  not  fail  eventually  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  engineers,  and  so  it  has  come  to  pass  that,  within  the  last  two 
years,  the  defile  has  been  thoroughly  surveyed  with  a  view  to  the 
construction  of  a  Trans-Balkan  railway. 

The  account  of  Kanitz,  who  only  superficially  examined  the 
northern  portion  of  the  gorge,  is  naturally  insufficient,  and  the  reports 
of  the  railway  engineers  and  sur>'eyors  are  purely  technical  and  have 
not  been  published.  No  further  excuse  is  needed  for  this  short 
sketch,  the  first  that  has  appeared  in  English,  of  a  journey  from  Sofia 
to  Wratsa  by  the  Isker. 

Day  had  just  broken,  dull  and  lowering,  as  we  met  at  breakfast, 
and  we  felt  that  there  was  some  small  amount  of  truth  in  the  scathing 
criticisms  of  Sofia  society,  which  pronounced  us  all  "  fit  to  be  put  in  a 
lunatic  asylum  "  for  leaving  our  comfortable  homes  in  such  weather, 
to  wander  houseless  and  hungry  through  the  Balkan.  However, 
when  we  mounted  and  rode  out,  a  motley  company  of  eight,  repre- 
senting no  less  than  ^\wq  different  nationalities,  we  put  a  bold  face  on 
the  matter,  for  was  there  not  a  lady  with  the  party,  the  first  to  pene- 
trate the  mysteries  of  Isker,  and  could  we  hold  back  while  she  showed 
complete  indifference  to  discomfort  and  fatigue  and  danger? 

And  here  I  may  say,  at  once,  that  our  confidence  was  rewarded, 
and  that,  leaving  clouds  and  rain  behind  us,  we  enjoyed  the  most 
delightful  weather  during  the  whole  of  our  excursion. 

Out  of  the  new  European  quarter  and  past  the  Prince's  Palace, 
which  looks  as  if  it  might  have  been  transferred  bodily  from  some 
small  German  Residenz  Stadt,  down  the  narrow  bazaar,  silent  now, 
but  which,  in  two  or  three  hours,  will  be  teeming  with  life,  we  leave 
the  town  behind,  and  passing  through  the  miserable  gipsy  viUage  of 
Novo  Selo,  emerge  upon  the  grassy  plain  of  Sofia,  What  a  place  for 
gallop  !  Prudence  suggests  that  we  have  a  long  journey  before  us, 
and  that  we  must  spare  our  horseflesh,  but  prudent  counsels  do  not 
prevail,  and  it  is  not  long  before  we  are  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  a 
gallop  which  continues  with  but  little  intermission  until  we  reach  the 
village  of  Corila,  where  we  are  to  find  our  guide  and  pack-horses,  and 
where  the  real  diflicijlties  of  the  road  begin. 


Through  the  Breach  in  Ihe  Balkan. 


1 

troubles  of  :^^l 


Every  one  who  has  traveUed  in  the  East  knows  the 
getting  under  weigh.  You  have  ordered  your  horses  to  be  ready  an 
hoar  before  you  really  intend  to  start.  It  is  of  no  use,  nothing  is 
nady.  Vou  get  angry,  storm  and  use  strong  language,  when  you 
ind  that  the  proper  number  of  horses  is  not  forthcoming,  or  that  one 
ofthem  is  a  hopeless  screw.  You  might  just  as  well  have  kept  your 
tHDper.  Try  sarcasm  if  you  like.  It  will  slide  like  water  off  a 
iocii's  back,  and  your  muleteer  or  pack-horse  driver  will  continue  to 
iliaf  leisurely  about,  executing  some  of  those  rough  and  ready  repairs 
Dftacklewhich  he  always  puts  off  to  the  last  moment,  quite  impervious 
to  ihe  most  pointed  shafts  of  your  wit. 

Let  us  pass  over  these  annoyances  as  we  are  on  pleasure  b< 
anti  start  with  our  caravan  of  ten  persons  and  eleven  horses  {for 
lavt  been  joined  by  a  mounted  servant,  besides  our  guide  Elia 
Khandji  with  his  two  pack-horses)  up  the  winding  path  that  leads 
60B1  the  village  into  the  mouth  of  the  defile, 

Pasang  through  a  narrow  gap  lately  blasted  in  the  solid  rock,  we 
|eti  good  and  characteristic  view  of  the  southern  part  of  the  gorge. 
Tlie  general  effect  is  wild  and  inhospitable,  for  the  mountains  which 
stretch  east  and  west  in  range  behind  range  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach  are  bare  and  arid,  and  the  meagre  stream  of  the  Isker  winds  far 
lielo*  in  serpentine  curves  within  a  broad  bed  of  sand  and  boulders. 
In  ftont  we  can  see  the  narrow  track  we  are  to  follow,  now  showing 
Kfeawhite  ribbon  against  some  steep  declivity,  and  now  descending 
Si  follow  the  bed  of  the  stream,  which  it  constantly  crosses. 

A  difficulty  presents  itself  at  the  first  ford.  One  of  the  horses 
liinis  out  to  have  a  sadly  galled  back,  and  is  sent  back  to  Sofia  in 
<*arge  of  a  peasant  His  rider  trusts  to  the  chance  of  finding  a  sub- 
tilute  at  the  first  village,  and  has  reached  the  ford  on  foot.  The 
l*dy  of  the  parly,  his  wife,  proposes  boldly  to  carry  him  over  behind 
'^tneroupe.  We  hold  our  breath  a  moment  as  her  over-weighted 
™"e  seems  to  lose  his  footing  in  midstream,  but  the  gallant  little 
""St  makes  a  struggle,  and,  half  swimming,  brings  his  double  burden 
"ft  lo  shore. 

\  The  colours  are  almost  as  startling  as  in  the  Dolomiie  Alps. 
"'iate\'er  wood  may  have  covered  these  rugged  slopes  has  long  since 
'Appeared,  excepting  some  few  patches  of  brushwood  in  the 
"^^'"es,  and  all  vegetable  soil  has  been  swept  away  by  storm,  rain, 
"^  frost,  leaving  red  and  purple  sandstone  and  conglomerate  to 
"•i  out  in  glaring  contrast  to  the  blue  sky  above, 
^very  four  or  five  miles,  where  a  broader  curve  of  the  valley  and 

t  *Ss  precipitous  slope  of  the  mountain  leave  room  for  a  few  narrow 


10US 
•ent^^l 


I 


Tlte  Getitleinan's  Magazhte. 

fields  of  straggling  oats  and  maize,  a  tiny  village  may  be  seen,  with 
its  little  grove  of  trees,  and  Alp-like  pastures  high  on  the  mountain 
side.  They  are  a  hardy  independent  race,  these  Isker  villagers,  who 
have  preferred  the  hardships  and  freedom  of  the  mountain  to  the 
easier  life  of  the  rich  Sofia  or  Danubian  plain  with  its  concomiuint 
oppressions  and  exactions.  For  in  the  times  before  the  war,  Turk 
and  Tcherkess  seldom  ventured  far  into  the  pass,  and  its  inhabitants  as 
seldom  quitted  it 

At  one  of  these  villages  we  succeed  after  a  great  deal  of  haggling 
in  hiring  a  horse  for  our  dismounted  companion.  It  is  not  that  the 
price  finally  given  is  exorbitant — two  francs  a  day—but  the  owner  is 
unwilling  to  part  with  his  animal,  until  a  master  mind  solves  the 
difficulty  by  suggesting  payment  in  advance  of  three  days'  hire,  and 
the  bargain  is  struck. 

On  reaching  Rebrovo,  a  little  village  situated  in  an  abrupt  curve 
of  the  valley,  near  which  coal  or  lignite  is  said  to  have  been  found, 
we  stop  to  lunch  under  the  shade  of  some  walnut-trees,  and  push  on 
afterwards  through  wilder  scenery,  which  now  begins  to  be  diversified 
with  more  frequent  oakwood. 

Here  we  notice  for  the  first  lime  a  peculiar  mode  of  storing  wood 
/or  firing.  The  trees  are  pollarded,  the  branches  being  taken  for  fire- 
wood, but  as  the  collages  are  too  small  to  hold  the  winter  stock  of 
fuel,  and  wood  stacked  on  the  ground  would  be  buried  beneath  the 
deep  snow,  the  peasants  are  in  ihe  habit  of  leaving  here  and  there  a 
tree  with  a  few  upright  branches,  between  which  the  wood  ig 
packed,  sloping  downwards  and  outwards  to  prevent  the  snow  from 
accumulating. 

The  path  grows  steeper  as  we  advance,  for  we  are  making  a  short 
cut  over  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain,  and  so  we  struggle  up  in 
single  file,  with  occasional  halts  to  breathe  the  horses,  until,  rounding 
an  extremely  rugged  comer  where  some  caution  has  to  be  shown 
in  passing,  we  find  ourselves  at  the  top  of  a  steep  grassy  slope, 
leading  down  to  the  green  valley  of  Sveti  Petka  Monastery,  Some 
maize  fields  tempt  the  sportsmen  of  the  party  to  wander  from  the 
track  in  search  of  partridges,  but  evening  is  coming  on,  and  we  have 
still  several  miles  to  go  before  reaching  our  halting-place.  After  a 
short  rest  in  the  courtyard  of  the  monastery  to  allow  our  pack- 
horses  a  chance  of  catching  us  up,  during  which  we  are  much 
amused  by  the  determined  attacks  upon  our  dogs  of  two  gaunt  sows  in 
defence  of  their  numerous  litters,  we  mount  again,  and  nighl  has 
fallen  as  we  clatter  through  the  straggling  village  of  Tcherova 
enter  the  Khan  yard. 


1 


Through  the  Breach  in  the  Balkan.         167 

When  our  horses  have  been  attended  to,  we  begin  to  think  about 
ourselves.  Tired,  cold,  and  hungry,  it  is  weary  work  waiting  for  the 
arrival  of  our  pack-horses,  with  our  food  and  wraps.  There  is  a  great 
granary  behind  the  Khan,  its  four  sides  open  to  the  winds  of  heaven, 
and  here  we  make  up  beds  of  clean  hay  and  settle  ourselves  down  to 
wait  for  our  truant  Elia  and  his  horses.  From  time  to  time  we  make 
descents  upon  the  Khan,  to  see  what  eatables  can  be  found  there. 
The  result  is  hardly  satisfactory.  The  room  is  low,  dirty,  and  full  of 
smoke.  A  large  square  hole  in  the  earthen  floor  contains  a  wood- 
fire,  over  which  culinary  operations  are  going  on.  There  is  no  chimney, 
and  the  roof  is  smoked  as  black  as  ebony.  Round  the  fire  are 
grouped  half  a  dozen  men  and  women,  clad  in  the  sheepskins  and 
coarse  white  woollen  cloth  of  the  country,  redolent  of  garlic  and 
innocent  of  soap.  They  are  good,  hospitable  souls,  however,  and 
what  they  have  is  freely  offered  us.  Two  or  three  dozen  eggs  are 
boiled,  and  maize  heads  and  paprikas  (red  pepper)  roasted  in  the 
embers.  But  three-fourths  of  the  eggs  are  of  ancient  date,  and  those 
of  us  who  are  rash  enough  to  try  the  paprikas  will  remember  for 
many  a  day  that  Europeans  cannot  boast  the  leathery  toughness  of 
Bulgarian  mouths  and  throats. 

At  last  the  sound  of  voices  and  horse-hoofs  outside  announces  the 
arrival  of  the  long-wished-for  Elia.  The  horses  are  soon  unloaded, 
and  we  dine  and  retire  to  rest  in  the  hay  without  more  ado.  The  night 
is  rather  a  disturbed  one.  The  horses  are  stamping  and  snorting 
underneath,  the  cold  air  will  find  its  way  in,  and  the  hay  has  an 
unaccountable  way  of  subsiding  and  letting  you  down  on  the  hard 
boards,  at  the  same  time  getting  down  your  neck  and  up  your  sleeves, 
and  tickling  you  to  distraction.  One  of  the  party  who  talks  in  his 
sleep  is  heard  to  make  disjointed  remarks  about  ''  getting  up  and 
shutting  the  windows."  Windows,  quotha  !  We  have  not  even  got 
walls  !  Another  snores  loudly,  but  being  within  reach  of  the  writer's 
foot  is  quieted  by  an  occasional  admonition  in  the  small  of  the  back. 

We  are  all  stirring  at  a  very  early  hour,  and  after  comparing  notes 
as  to  our  night's  rest,  betake  ourselves  to  an  icy  fountain  to  wash.  We 
now  have  light  to  see  and  admire  the  wonderful  position  of  Tcherova. 
A  complete  circle  of  mountains  seems  to  surround  us,  for  the  Isker, 
hidden  behind  a  low  knoll,  finds  it  way,  unseen  from  the  village,  out  of 
the  apparently  unbroken  amphitheatre.  The  prevailing  colour  of  the 
mountains  is  red,  and  they  are  crowned  with  fantastic  castellated 
formations.  One  of  us  who,  on  a  former  occasion,  ascended  the 
mountain  directly  overhanging  the  village  in  pursuit  of  red-legged  par. 


The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

tridges,  will  not  easily  foi^et  the  dangers  of  the  narrow  rock  galleries 
which  run  horizontally  along  the  mountain  side. 

There  is  no  time  to  be  lost  in  starting  this  morning,  for  at  a 
council  of  war  held  on  rising  we  have  resolved  to  be  bold  and 
attempt  the  journey  over  the  Osikovo  Mountain  and  the  Isgorigrad 

s  to  Wratsa  in  one  day,  instead  of  turning  west  from  Tcherova  to 
meet  the  Lorn  road,  as  originally  intended. 

Leaving  the  amphitheatre,  we  come  before  long  to  what  is  notori- 
ously the  most  dangerous  portion  of  our  journey.  A  goat  track  of 
little  more  than  a  foot  in  width,  and  sloping  downwards  at  that,  is 
all  our  road,  and  a  false  step  would  send  man  and  horse  rolling 
two  or  three  hundred  feet  into  the  Isker,  flowing  narrow  and  deep 
below  us  on  the  right.  Those  whose  heads  are  not  good  had  better 
dismount  and  lead  their  liorses,  which  have  a  perverse  way  of 
walking,  if  possible,  nearer  than  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  verge. 
Our  brave  lady  companion  has  a  moment  of  imminent  danger. 
There  is  a  choice  of  two  tracks,  and  she  follows  the  lower  one,  coming 
after  a  few  yards  to  a  place  where  a  litlle  landslip  has  carried  away 
a  yard  or  so  of  the  narrow  path,  and  caused  its  abandonment  in 
favour  of  the  other.  Tliere  is  no  room  to  turn  her  horse,  clever  and 
surefooted  as  he  is.  What  is  to  be  done?  Fortunately  there  is  a 
cool  head  and  a  steady  hand  ready  to  aid  lier.  A  firm  grasp  on  the 
reins  and  a  tap  from  the  riding  whip,  and  the  horse,  making  a  goat- 
like spring,  clears  the  dangerous  gap. 

The  next  little  adventure,  though  perilous,  has  its  comic  side. 
A  gentleman  riding  a  Turkish  stallion  has  been  in  constant  trouble 
owing  to  the  fighting  and  biting  propensities  of  his  steed,  which  now 
chooses  an  exlremely  awkward  part  of  the  path  to  attempt  an  on- 
slaught on  the  horse  behind.  Swinging  round  on  his  hind-legs  he 
strikes  out  viciously  with  his  forefeet,  losing  bis  balance  in  the  act, 
and  his  rider  with  great  promptitude  rolls  off  on  the  safe  side  as  the 
horse's  hind-legs  slide  over  the  edge.  However,  the  cavalier  picks 
himself  up  and  quickly  extricates  his  horse  from  his  unpleasant  situa- 
tion. When  the  momentary  danger  is  past,  a  roar  of  laughter  greets 
our  friend's  remark,  "  Did  you  notice  my  presence  of  mind  in  roiling 
off  on  the  side  away  from  the  precipice?" 

No  further  mishap  attends  our  onward  course.  The  taauvais 
pai  is  past,  and  about  midday  we  reach  a  pleasant  grassy  spot  by 
the  stream,  where  we  hall  and  lunch.  We  have  reached  a  point 
where  the  Isker  turns  eastward,  and  as  Wratsa  lies  due  north  we  say 
goodbye  to  the  river,  and  turn  up  a  steep  path  to  the  left,  to  ac- 
compYish  in  little  more  than  an  hour  an  ascent  of  a  thousand  metres. 


the  Balkan. 

"Al  [he  top  we  find  an  extensive  table-land,  with  cultivated  fields  and 
pwtures,  and  here  we  push  on  at  our  best  speed  in  order  to  reach 
the  dangerous  descent  of  Isgorigrad  before  nightfall,  stopping  only 
to  have  one  of  the  horses  shod  at  the  village  of  Osikovo,  which  gives 
its  name  to  the  mountain.  The  highest  point  (1,411  metres)  is 
rciched,  and  we  begin  to  descend  gradually,  hardly  giving  ourselves 
lime  to  admire  the  first  view  of  the  Danubian  plain,  or  to  note  the 
immediate  change  of  prospect  caused  by  the  extensive  forests  which 
dothe  aJI  the  northern  slope  of  the  Balkans. 

Night  is  beginning  to  fall  as  we  leave  the  grassy  table-land,  and 
entering  the  wood  descend  the  steep  and  stony  torrent -bed  which 
serves  as  a  road  into  Uie  deep  valley  of  Isgorigrad.  Fortunately  a 
brilliant  moon  is  not  slow  lo  rise  and  illuminate  our  path.  The 
uriier,  whose  horse  is  showing  signs  of  giving  out,  dismounts  to  lead 
him  down  what  he  takes  for  a  short  cut.  This,  of  course,  turns  out 
to  be  "  the  longest  way  about,"  and  he  is  left  far  behind  by  his  com- 
panions. Quickening  bis  pace,  another  road  proverb  is  exemplified, 
that  of  "  the  more  haste  the  less  speed,"  for  he  slips  and  falls  with 
his  horse  on  top  of  him,  A  few  bruises  are  luckily  the  only  result, 
Ind  he  eventually  succeeds,  guided  by  a  couple  of  gunshots,  in 
tejoiningthe  party  in  advance  jusl  as  they  are  nearing  the  narrow 
defile  in  the  farther  end  of  which  lies  Wratsa.  The  scene  is  most 
nriking  in  the  bright  moonh'ght,  perhaps  more  so  than  by  day.  A 
lortuotis  path  follows  the  narrow  bed  of  the  Wratchanska  stream, 
bclTieen  immense  walls  of  yellow  calcareous  rock  rising  on  the  left 
to  a  height  of  two  or  three  thousand  feet,  and  fringed  by  enormous 
blocks  detached  from  above,  and  isolated  pinnacles  which  threaten 
tolallat  a  touch.  In  the  mouth  of  the  defile  we  see  houses,  and  on 
•slriog  a  peasant,  whom  we  chance  to  meet,  how  far  it  is  to  Wratsa, 
'Weive  the  welcome  reply, "  This  is  Wratsa."  The  inn  is  found,  not 
Without  a  search,  and  we  repeat  the  process  of  waiting  for  Elia 
^nandji,  with  the  advantage  (his  time  of  discussing  while  we  wait  a 
"pious  supply  of  fresh  eggs  and  "  goulash,"  or  Irish  stew,  washed 
*'*n  with  execrable  wine  of  the  country. 

A  large  experience  of  Bulgarian  Khans  causes  us  to  retire  to  bed 

*'*h  dismal  anticipations  of  a  sleepless  night,  but  we  are  agreeably 

f^'^ppointed,  and  rise  refreshed  by  a  good  night's  rest  after  the 

■fene  of  our  long  march.     To-day   we   are   to   travel   westward, 

*-*Ting  the  Balkan, and  reaching  the  Lom  high  road  near  Berko\atz. 

'    Bulgarian  gentleman  who  is  with  us  owns  a  chilct  in  the  Petrohan 

_*Ss,  which  is  always  hospitably  open  lo  his  friends  and  friends' 

■VOL,  ccLviii.    NO.  1850.  -s 


I 


I70  The  Geitiiemaiis  Magazine. 

friends.     There  we  ate  to  pass  the  night,  reaching  Sofia  on  the 

Although  it  is  early  still  as  we  tide  through  the  town,  there  are 
already  plenty  of  people  in  the  bazaars,  who  watch  the  passage  of  our 
n  with  interest  Wratsa  is  a  busy  town  of  about  2,000  houses, 
and  does  a  considerable  trade  in  grain,  hides,  wax,  and  silk,  while 
its  filigree  workers  enjoy  a  high  reputation  in  the  country. 

A\'e  observe  a  good  many  Turks  in  Wratsa  and  the  surround- 
ing country',  the  gay  red  and  yellow  cottons  that  they  love  to 
wear,  with  their  red  caps  and  waistbands,  contrasting  brightly  with 
the  more  sombre  dresses  of  the  Bulgars,  Even  the  latter  wear  a 
more  becoming  dress  than  their  fellow-countrymen  of  the  Sofia 
plain,  and  the  costume  of  the  women  is  decidedly  pretty.  An 
embroidered  chemise  beneath  a  kind  of  external  corset  is  confined 
at  the  waist  by  a  broad  belt  with  large  buckles  of  silver  or  mother-of- 
pearl,  and  the  petticoat  is  replaced  by  two  overlapping  aprons  of 
crimson  dye.  The  race,  too,  is  finer  and  handsomer,  as  well  as 
brighter  and  more  courteous,  than  that  of  the  sullen  "Scliops"  of 
Sofia  and  its  vicinity. 

\\'e  exchange  greetings  with  peasants  on  their  way  to  market,  both 
Tiirks  and  Bulgars,  The  usual  formula  of  the  latter,  "Well  met  1" 
is  answered  by  the  phrase,  "  God  give  you  good  ! "  and  varied  by  an 
occasional,  "  Well  overtaken !  "  for  those  whom  we  pass  going  in  the 
same  direction  as  ourselves. 

To-day  we  enjoy  to  the  full  all  the  pleasures  of  travelling  on 
horseback  under  the  best  conditions.  Fine  weather,  good  roads, 
and  beautiful  scenery  combine  to  put  us  in  good  humour  with 
ourselves  and  all  the  world,  and  the  little  incidents  of  trie  road  will 
long  remain  a  pleasant  memory  to  all.  ^Ve  never  tasted  such 
magnificent  grapes  as  (hose  we  plucked  at  our  halt  among  the 
vineyards,  nor  enjoyed  so  delicious  a  bath  as  that  in  the  stream 
beneath  the  wood  where  we  watched  the  Turkish  sportsmen  bunting 
with  "  copois,"  the  hounds  of  the  country. 

We  can  afford  to  forget  that  on  our  arrival  at  the  chalet  we  found 
it  apparently  deserted,  our  host's  message  to  the  caretaker  having 
miscarried,  that  our  pack-horses  never  arrived,  their  driver  having 
failed  to  find  the  chalet  in  the  dark,  and  that  we  spent  a  cold  and 
miserable  night  where  we  expected  to  repose  in  the  lap  of  luxury.  Yes, 
all  this  we  can  forget  when  the  morning  sunhas  taken  the  chill  out  of  our 
bones,  and  we  are  again  in  the  saddle.  Our  spirits  quickly  rise,  and  we 
are  soon  even  capable  of  a  laugh,  when  an  unsuccessful  shotataroe- 
buck,  seen  by  the  roadside,  gives  us  a  foundation  on  which  to 


Miui  3[  a  roe-    ■ 
I  to  construct   j 


Through  the  Breach  in  the  Balkan. 

aficiion  of  an  attack  by  brigands  to  be  told  later  to  one  of  the  party  ^ 
tlio  has  pushed  on  in  front,  with  circtimstantla!  evidence  lq  the  shape  I 
ofibdlethcle  through  one  of  our  hats. 

Oi-er  the  pass  and  down  the  southern  slope  we  ride,  hour  after  I 
bour,  passing  our  lost  Elia  on  the  road,  until,  with  a  rousing  cheer,  { 
ind  forcing  our  horses  to  a  gallop,  we  dash  into  the  post  station  of  1 
Bi;chtiJo,  to  meet  a  lady  who  has  come  thus  far  to  meet  u 
-liim,  bringing  with  her  a  lunch  for  the  party  which  seems  absurdly 
/r.piuous  after  the  rough  fate  of  the  last  four  days. 

Our  entry  into  Sofia  is  less  triumphal,  for  five  more  hom-s  of  quick 
travelling  have  taken  all  the  gallop  out  of  our  horses  ;  and  though  we 
hivt  kept  our  spirits  up  and  beguiled  the  time  by  songs  in  every 
imaginable  language,  there  is  no  doubt  that  some  of  us  are  not  sorry 
to  find  ourselves  at  home  again.  But  when  we  take  leave  of  the 
hfioine  of  the  expedition  at  her  doorstep,  and  disperse  to  our  re- 
spective homes,  we  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  we  have 
■  '-umplished  a  difficult  journey  of  more  than  two  hundred  kilom&tres 
"ii'nout  damage  to  horse  or  rider,  with  the  proud  consciousness  of  , 
■living  done  it  in  the  "  quickest  time  on  record,"  and  in  the  company 
ol  the  &rst  lady  who  e\'er  penetrated  the  Gorge  of  Isker  from  end  to 
tnj. 


I 


1^2  The  Cenllenian's  Magaztnit 


A  ROMANCE  OF  A  GREEK  STATUE 

I  CANNOT  tell  you  the  story  just  as  Nikola  toM  it  to  mc,  wi 
all  that  flow  of  language  common  in  a  Greek,  my  memoTy 
not  good  enough  for  that;  but  the  facts,  and  some  of  his  quain 
expressions,  I  can  recount,  (or  these  I  never  shall  forget.  My  travi 
took  me  to  a  distant  island  of  the  Greek  Archipelago,  called  Sikino^ 
last  winter,  an  island  only  to  be  reached  by  a  sailing  boat,  and  hen 
in  quarters  of  the  humblest  nature,  I  was  storm-stayed  for  five  loii| 
days.  Nikola  had  been  my  muleteer  on  an  expedition  I  made  to 
remote  comer  of  the  island  where  still  are  to  be  traced  the  ruins  i 
an  ancient  Hellenic  town,  and  about  a  mile  from  it  a  temple  i 
Pythian  Apolto.  He  was  a  fine  stalwart  fellow  of  thirty  or  there- 
abouts ;  he  had  a  bright  intelligent  face,  and  he  wore  the  usual  island 
costume,  namely,  knickerbocker  trousers  of  blue  homespun  calico, 
with  a  fulness,  which  hangs  down  between  the  legs,  and  when  full  o( 
things,  for  it  is  the  universal  pocket,  wabbles  about  like  the  stomach 
of  a  goose ;  on  his  head  he  wore  a  faded  old  fez,  his  feet  were 
protected  from  the  stones  by  sandals  of  untanned  skin,  and  he 
carried  a  long  stick  in  his  hand  with  which  to  drive  his  mule. 

Sikinos  is  perhaps  the  most  unattainable  comer  of  Europe,  being 
nothing  but  a  barren  harbourless  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  -■Egean  sea, 
possessing  as  a  fleet  one  caique,  which  occasionally  goes  to  i 
neighbouring  island  where  the  steamer  stops,  to  see  if  there  an 
communications  from  the  outer  world,  and  four  rotten  fishing  boats, 
which  seldom  venture  more  than  a  hundred  yards  from  the  shore. 
The  fifteen  hundred  inhabitants  of  this  rock  lead  a  monotonous  life 
in  two  villages,  one  of  which  is  two  hundred  years  old,  fortified  and 
dirty,  and  called  the  "  K  astro,"  or  the  "camp";  the  other  is 
modem,  and  about  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  camp,  and  is  called 
"  the  other  place ";  so  nomenclature  in  Sikinos  is  simple  enough. 
The  inhabitants  are  descended  from  certain  refugees  who,  two 
hundred  years  ago,  fled  from  Crete  during  a  revolution,  and  built  the 
fortified  village  up  on  the  hillside  out  of  the  reach  of  pirates,  and 
remained  isolated  from  the  world  ever  since.  Before  they  came, 
Sikinos  had  been  uninhabited  since  the  days  of  the  ancient  Greeks, 
The  only  two  men  in  the  place  who  have  travelled— that  is  to  »y, 


A  Romance  of  a  Greek  Slaiue. 


I  js  the  rhiflf    ^^ 


iflio  have  been  as  far  as  Athens— are  the  Demarch,  who  is  the  chief 
legislator  of  the  island,  and  looked  up  to  as  quite  a  roan  of  the  world, 
and  Nikola,  the  muleteer. 

I  mast  say,  the  last  thing  I  expected  to  hear  in  Sikinos  was  a 
romance,  but  on  one  of  the  stormy  days  of  detention  there,  with  the 
obJKl  of  whiling  away  an  hour,  1  paid  a  visit  to  Nikola  in  his  clean 
whitehouse  in  "  the  other  place."  He  met  me  on  the  threshold  with 
ibeuiy"  We  have  well  met,"  bade  mc  sit  down  on  his  divan,  and  sent 
his  wife — a  bright,  buxom  young  woman — for  the  customary  coffee, 
sweets,  and  raki ;  he  rolled  me  a  cigarelte,  which  he  carefully  licked, 
to  my  horror,  but  which  I  dared  not  refuse  to  smoke,  cursed  the 
weather,  and  stirred  the  embers  in  the  brazier  preparatory  to 
allacking  me  with  a  volley  of  questions.  I  always  disarm  inquisitive- 
ness  on  such  occasions  by  being  inquisitive  myself.  "  How  long  have 
joubeenmarritd?"  "How  many  children  have  you  got?"  "How  old 
is  jrour  wife?"  and  by  the  time  I  had  asked  half  a  dozen  such 
questions,  Nikola,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Greeks,  had  forgotten 
hij  on-n  thirst  for  knowledge  in  his  desire  to  satisfy  mine. 

Id  Nikola's  case  unparalleled  success  attended  this  manoeuvre,  and 
ftomihe  furtive  smiles  which  passed  between  husband  and  wife  I 
rtalised  that  some  mystery  was  attached  to  their  union,  which  I  forth- 
with made  it  my  business  to  solve. 

"  I  always  call  her  '  my  statue,' "  said  the  muleteer,  laughing,  "  'my 
narble  statue,'  "  and  he  slapped  her  on  the  back  to  show  thatj  at  any 
rale,  she  was  made  of  pretty  hard  material. 

"  Can  Pygmalion  have  married  tialatea  after  all?"  I  remarked  for 
tbc  moment,  forgetting  the  ignorance  of  my  friends  on  such  topics,  but 
*Cteck  never  admits  that  he  does  not  understand,  and  Nikola  replied, 
"No;  her  name  is  Kallirhoe,  and  she  was  the  priest's  daughter." 

Having  now  broached  the  subject,  Nikola  was  all  anxiety  to  con- 
tinue it;  he  seated  himself  on  one  chair,  his  wife  took  another,  ready 
">  prompt  him  if  necessary,  and  remind  hira  of  forgotten  facts.  I  sat 
on  the  divan  ;  between  us  was  the  brazier  ;  the  only  cause  for  inter- 
Wption  came  from  an  exceedingly  naughty  child,  which  existed  as  a 
living  testimony  that  this  modem  Galatea  had  recovered  from  her 
fonnation  into  stone. 

gay  young  fellow  in  those  days,"  began  Nikola. 
Five  years  ago  last  carnival  time,"  put  in  the  wife,  but  she 
wbsided  on  a  frown  from  her  better  half;  for  Greek  husbands  never 
itdly  submit,  like  English  ones,  to  the  lesser  portion  of  command, 

the  Greek  wife  is  the  pattern  of  a  weaker  vessel,  seldom  sitting 
to  meals,  cooking,  spinning,  slaving, — a  mere  chattel,  in  fact. 


living 


174  The  GentUmofts  Magazifu. 

"  I  wa«;  the  younj:est  of  six — two  sisters  and  four  brothers,  and 
wc  four  worked  day  after  day  to  keep  our  old  father's  land  in  order, 
for  we  were  very  poor,  and  had  nothing  to  live  upon  except  the 
produce  of  our  land." 

I^nd  in  Sikinos  is  divided  into  tiny  holdings:  one  man  may 
possess  half  a  do/en  plots  of  laml  in  different  parts  of  the  island,  the 
produce  of  whicli — the  grain,  the  grapes,  the  olives,  the  honey,  &c — 
he  brings  on  mules  to  his  store  (uTro^r/my)  near  the  village.  Eadi 
landowner  has  a  store  and  a  little  garden  around  it  on  the  hillside, 
juit  outside  the  village,  of  which  the  stores  look  like  a  mean  exten- 
sion, but  on  visiting  them  we  found  their  use. 

"We  worked  every  day  in  the  year  except  feast-days,  starting 
early  with  our  ploughs,  our  hoes,  and  our  pnming  hooks,  according 
to  the  season,  and  returning  late,  driving  our  bullocks  and  our  mules 
before  us."  An  islander's  tools  arc  simple  enough — his  plough  is  so 
light  that  he  can  carry  it  over  his  shoulders  as  he  drives  the 
bullocks  to  their  work.  It  merely  scratches  the  back  of  the  land, 
making  no  deep  furrows ;  and  when  the  work  is  far  from  the  village  the 
husbandman  starts  from  home  very  early,  and  seldom  returns  till  dusL 

"  On  feast-days  we  danced  on  the  village  square.  I  used  to  look 
forward  to  those  days,  for  then  I  met  Kallirhoe,  the  priest's  daughter, 
who  danced  the  syrios  best  of  all  the  girls,  tripping  as  softly  as  a 
Nereid,"  said  Nikola,  looking  approvingly  at  his  wife.  I  had  seen  a 
syrios  at  Sikinos,  and  I  could  testify  to  the  fact  that  they  dance  it 
well,  revolving  in  light  wavy  lines  backwards,  forwards,  now  quick, 
now  slow,  until  you  do  not  wonder  that  the  natives  imagine  those 
mystic  beings  they  call  Nereids  to  be  for  ever  dancing  thus  in  the 
caves  and  grottoes.  The  syrtos  is  a  semicircular  dance  of  alternate 
young  men  and  maidens,  holding  each  other  by  handkerchiefs,  not 
from  modesty,  as  one  might  at  first  suppose,  but  so  as  to  give  more 
liberty  of  action  to  their  limbs,  and  in  dancing  this  dance  it  would 
appear  Nikola  and  Kallirhoe  first  felt  the  tender  passion  of  love  kindled 
in  their  breasts.  But  between  the  two  a  great  gulf  was  fixed,  for 
marriages  amongst  a  peasantry  so  shrewd  as  the  Greeks  are  not  so 
easily  settled  as  they  arc  with  us.  Parents  have  absolute  authority 
over  their  daughters,  and  never  allow  them  to  marry  without  a 
prospect,  and  before  providing  for  any  son  a  father's  duty  is  to  give 
his  daughters  a  house  and  a  competency,  and  he  expects  any  suitor  for 
their  hand  to  present  an  equivalent  in  land  and  farm  stock.  The 
result  of  this  is  to  create  an  overpowering  stock  of  maiden  ladiei, 
and  to  drive  young  men  from  home  in  search  of  fortunes  and  wives 
elsewhere. 


.'/  Romance  of  a  Greek  Statue. 

This  was  the  breach  which  was  fixed  between  Nikola  and 
Kallirhoe — apparently  a  hopeless  case,  for  Nikola  had  sisters,  and 
brothers,  and  poverty- stricken  parents  ;  he  never  could  so  much  as 
hope  to  call  a  spade  his  own ;  during  all  his  life  he  would  have  to 
drudge  and  slave  for  others.  They  could  not  run  away ;  that  idea 
never  occurred  lo  them,  for  the  only  escape  from  Sikinos  was  by  the 
solitar)'  caique.  "  I  had  heard  rumours,"  continued  Nikola,  "  of  how 
men  from  other  islands  had  gone  to  far-off  countries  and  returned 
rich,  but  how  could  I,  who  had  never  been  off  this  rock  in  all  my 
life? 

"  I  should  have  had  to  travel  by  one  of  those  steamers  which  \ 
had  seen  with  their  tail  of  smoke  on  the  horizon,  and  about  which  I 
had  pondered  many  a  lime,  just  like  you,  sir,  may  look  and  ponder 
at  the  stars ;  and  to  travel  I  should  require  money,  which  I  well 
knew  my  father  would  not  give  me,  for  he  wanted  me  for  his  slave. 
My  only  hope,  and  that  was  a  small  one,  was  that  the  priest,  Papa 
M&noulas,  Kallirhoe's  father,  would  not  be  too  hard  on  us  when  he 
saw  how  wc  loved  each  other.  He  had  been  the  priest  to  dip 
me  in  the  font  at  my  baptism  ;  he  always  smoked  a  pipe  with 
father  once  a  week  ;  he  had  known  me  all  my  life  as  a  steady  lad, 
iriio  only  got  drunk  on  feast-days.  'Perhaps  he  will  give  his 
consent,'  whispered  my  mother,  putting  foolish  hopes  into  my  brain. 
Poor  old  woman!  she  was  grieved  to  see  her  favourite  looking  worn 
and  ill,  listless  at  his  work,  and  for  ever  incurring  the  blame  of 
bther  and  brothers ;  only  when  I  talked  to  her  about  KalUrhoe  did 
my  face  brighten  a  little,  so  she  said  one  day,  '  Papa  Manoulas  is 
kind  ;  likely  enough  he  may  wish  to  see  Kallirhoe  happy.'  So  one 
evil  day  I  consented  to  my  mother's  plan,  that  she  should  go  and 
propose  forme." 

Some  explanation  is  here  necessary.  At  Sikinos,  as  in  other  remote 
comers  of  Greece,  they  still  keep  up  a  custom  called  Trpoitvta.  T!:e 
man  does  not  propose  in  person,  but  sends  an  old  female  relative  to 
seek  the  girl's  hand  from  her  parents ;  this  old  woman  must  have  on 
one  stocking  white  and  the  other  red  or  brown.  "Your  stockings  of 
two  colours  make  me  think  that  we  shall  have  an  offer,"  sings  an  island 
poem.  Nikola's  mother  went  thus  garbed,  but  returned  with  a 
sonowful  face.  "  I  was  made  to  eat  gruel,"  said  he,  using  the 
Common  expression  in  these  parts  for  a  refusal,  "and  nobody  ate 
rnore  than  I  did.  Next  day  Papa  Manoulas  called  at  our  house. 
Aly  heart  stood  still  as  he  came  in,  and  then  bubbled  over  like  a 
Seething  wine  vat  when  he  asked  to  speak  to  me  alone.  '  You  are  a 
Ugood  fellow,  Kola,'  he  began.     '  Kallirhoe  loves  you,  and  I  wish  to  . 


176  The  Gentleman^ s  Magazine. 

see  you  happy;'  and  I  had  fallen  on  his  neck  and  kissed  him  on 
both  cheeks  before  he  could  say,  '  Wait  a  bit,  young  man  ;  before 
you  marry  her  you  must  get  together  just  a  little  money ;  I  will  be 
content  with  1,000  drachmas  {jQ^o).  When  you  have  that  to  offer 
in  return  for  Kallirhoc's  dower  you  shall  be  married.'  '  A  thousand 
drachmas  ! '  muttered  I.  *  May  the  God  of  the  ravens  help  me  ! "  (an 
expression  denoting  impossibility),  "  and  I  burst  into  tears." 

The  men  of  modern  Greece  when  violently  agitated  ay  as  readily 
as  cunning  Ulysses,  and  are  not  ashamed  of  the  fact. 

"  I  remember  well  that  evening,"  continued  Nikola.  "  I  left  the 
house  as  it  was  getting  dusk,  and  climbed  down  the  steep  path  to 
the  sea.  I  wandered  for  hours  amongst  the  wild  mastic  and  the 
brushwood.  My  feet  refused  to  carry  me  home  that  night,  so  I  lay 
down  on  the  floor  in  the  little  white  church,  dedicated  to  my  patron 
saint,  down  by  the  harbour,  where  we  go  for  our  annual  festival  when 
the  priest  blesses  the  waters  and  our  boats.  Many's  the  time,  as  a 
lad,  I've  jumped  into  the  water  to  fetch  out  the  cross,  which  the 
priest  throws  into  the  sea  with  a  stone  tied  to  it  on  this  occasion,  and 
man/s  the  time  I've  been  the  lucky  one  to  bring  it  up  and  get  a  few 
coppers  for  my  wetting.  That  night  I  thought  of  tying  a  stone  round 
my  own  neck  and  jumping  into  the  sea,  so  that  all  traces  of  me  might 
disappear. 

'^  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  face  any  one  all  next  day,  so 
I  wandered  amongst  the  rocks,  scarcely  remembering  to  feed  myself 
on  the  few  olives  I  had  in  my  pocket.  I  could  do  nothing  but  sing 
*  The  Little  Caique,'  which  made  me  sob  and  feel  better." 

The  song  of  "  The  Little  Caique  "  is  a  great  favourite  amongst  tlie 
seafaring  men  of  the  Greek  iskmds.  It  is  a  melancholy  love  ditty,  of 
which  the  following  words  are  a  fairly  close  translation  : — 

In  a  tiny  little  caique 

Forth  in  my  folly  one  night 
To  the  sea  of  love  I  wandered, 

Where  the  land  was  nowhere  in  sight. 

O  my  star  !  O  my  brilliant  star  ! 

Have  pity  on  my  youth, 
Desert  me  not,  oh  !  leave  me  not 

Alone  in  the  sea  of  love  ! 

O  my  star  !  O  ray  brilliant  star  ! 

I  have  met  you  on  my  path. 
Dost  thou  bid  me  not  tarry  near  thee  ? 

Are  thy  feelings  not  of  love  ? 

Lo  !  suddenly  about  me  fell 

The  darkness  of  that  night, 
And  the  sea  rolled  in  mountains  around  me, 

And  the  land  was  nowhere  in  sight, 


1 

anxious  face-^^ 


A  Romance  of  a  Greek  StaUie. 

"Towards  evening  I  retunied  home.  My  mother's  anxious  face^' 
lold  me  ihal  she,  loo,  had  suffered  during  my  absence  ;  and  out  of  a 
pol  of  lentil  socp,  which  was  simmering  on  the  embers,  she  gave  me 
\  bowlftit,  and  it  refreshed  me.  To  my  dying  day  I  shall  never 
forget  my  father's  and  brothers'  wrath,  I  had  wilfully  absented  myself 
fotawhote  day  from  my  work.  I  was  called  'a  peacock,'  'a  burnt  man' 
(tquivalent  to  a  fool),  "no  man  at  all,'  'horns,'  and  any  bad  name  that 
tpccurred  to  them.  For  days  and  weeks  after  this  I  was  the  most 
niistrabte,  down. trodden  Greek  alive,  and  all  on  account  of  a  woman." 
And  here  Nikola  came  to  a  stop,  and  ordered  his  wife  to  fetch  him 
iBotiier  glass  of  raki  to  moisten  his  throat  No  Greek  cati  talk 
ang  long  without  a  glass  of  raki. 

"About   two   months   after   these   events,"   began   Nikola 

rtnesed  vigour,  "my  father  ordered  me  to  clear  away  a  heap  of 

Honra  which  occupied  a  comer  of  a  little  terrace -vineyard  we  owned 

on  J  slope  near  the  church  of  Episcopi.'     We  always  thought  the 

Hones  had  been  put  there  to  support  the  earth  from  falling  from  the 

letrace  above,  but  it  lately  had  occurred  to  my  father  that  it  was  only 

iliap  of  loose  stones  which  had  been  cleared  off  the  tield  and 

ihrown  there  when  the  vineyard  was  made,  and  the  removal  of  which 

would  add  several  square  feet  to  the  small  holding.     Next  morning 

laarted  about  an  hour  before  the  Panagfa  (Madonna)  had  opened 

lie  gates  of  the  East,'  with  a  mule  and  paniers  to  remove  the  stones. 

I  worked  hard  enough  when  I  got  there,  for  the  morning  was  cold, 

^nd  I  was  beginning  to  find  that  the  harder  I  worked  the  less  time  I 

'■sd  for  thought.    Stone'  after  stone  was  removed,  pannier-load  after 

P*iinier-load  was  emptied  down  the  cliff,  and  fell  rattling  amongst  the 

"tishwood  and  rousing  tiic  partridges  and  crows  as  they  fell.    After 

*  Couple  of  hours'  work  the  mound  was  rapidly  disappearing,  when  I 

**nie  across  something  white  projecting  upwards.     I  looked  at  it 

•^Osely  ;  it  was  a  marble  foot.     More  stones  were  removed,  and  dis- 

''Osed  a  marble  leg,  two  legs,  a  body,  an  arm;  a  head  and  another 

*~**i,  which  had  been  broken  off  by  the  weight  of  the  stones,  lay  close 

-*'-     Though  I  was  somewhat  astonished  at  this  discovery,  yet  I  did 

*^  *  suppose  it  to  be  of  any  value.     I  had  heard  of  things  of  this  kind 

''^ijig  found  before.     My  father  had  an  ugly  bit  of  marble  which 

^-*~iie  out  of  a  neighbouring  tomb.     However,  I  did  not  throw  it  over 

'  This  church  was  oriEinally  the  temple  of  Pylhion  Apollo,  and  stands  much 
*i  originoJl)'  did. 
'  The  peasanls  believe  still  that  Ihe  Madonna  opens  gsle?,  out  of  which  her 
in  his  daily  course  round  the  world— an  obvious  confusion  between 
lutiJiniirand  Ibe  old  Sun-worship, 


im 


I 


The  Genileman's  Magasine. 

the  cliff  with  the  other  siones,  but  I  put  it  on  one  side  and  went  on 
again  with  my  work. 

"  All  day  long  my  thoughts  kept  reverting  to  this  statue.  It  was 
so  very  life-like — so  different  from  the  stiff,  ugly  marble  figures  I  had 
seen  ;  and  it  was  so  much  larger,  too,  standing  nearly  four  feet  high. 
Perhaps,  thought  I,  the  Panagia  has  put  it  here— perhaps  it  is  a  sacred 
miracle-working  thing,  such  as  the  priests  find  in  spots  like  this,  And 
then  suddenly  1  remembered  how,  when  I  was  a  boy,  a  great  German 
effendi  had  visited  Sikinos,  and  was  reported  to  Iiave  dug  up  and 
carried  away  with  him  priceless  treasures.  Is  this  statue  worth  any- 
thing? was  the  question  which  haunted  me  all  day,  and  which  I 
would  have  given  ten  years  of  my  young  life  to  solve. 

"  AVhen  my  day's  ivork  was  over,  I  put  the  statue  on  to  my  mule, 
and  carefully  covered  it  over,  so  that  no  one  might  see  what  I  had 
found  ;  for  though  I  was  hopelessly  ignorant  of  what  the  value  of 
my  discovery  might  be,  yet  instinct  prompted  me  to  keep  it  to  myself. 
It  was  dark  when  1  reached  the  village,  and  I  went  straight  to  the 
store,  sorely  perplexed  as  to  what  to  do  with  my  treasure.  There 
was  no  time  to  bury  it,  for  I  had  met  one  of  my  brothers,  who  would 
tell  them  at  home  that  I  had  returned  ;  so  in  all  haste  I  hid  the  cold 
white  thing  under  the  grain  in  the  corner,  trusting  that  no  one  would 
find  it,  and  went  home.  I  passed  a  ivretched  night,  dreaming  and 
restless  by  turns.  Once  1  woke  up  in  horror,  and  found  it  difficult  10 
dispel  the  effects  of  a  dream  in  which  I  had  sold  Kallirhoe  to  a 
prince,  and  married  the  statue  by  mistake.  And  next  day  my  heart 
stood  still  when  my  father  went  down  to  the  store  with  me,  shoved 
his  hand  into  the  grain,  and  muttered  that  we  must  send  it  up  to  the 
mill  to  be  ground.  That  very  night  I  went  out  with  a  spade  and 
buried  my  treasure  deep  in  the  ground  under  the  straggling  branches 
of  our  fig-tree,  where  I  knew  it  would  not  be  likely  to  be  disluibed." 

Nikola  paused  here  for  a  while,  stirred  the  embers  with  the  Utile 
brass  tweezers,  the  only  diminutive  irons  required  for  so  liliputian  a 
fire,  sang  snatches  of  nasal  Greek  music,  so  distasteful  to  a  western 
ear,  and  joined  his  wife  in  muttering  "  winter  !  "  "  snow  1  "  "storm  !  " 
and  other  less  elegant  invectives  against  the  weather,  which  these 
islanders  use  when  winter  comes  upon  them  for  two  or  three  days, 
and  makes  them  shiver  in  their  wretched  unprotected  houses;  and 
they  make  no  effort  10  protect  themselves  from  it,  for  tliey  know  that 
in  a  few  days  the  sun  will  shine  again  and  dry  them,  their  mud  roofs 
will  cease  to  leak,  and  nature  will  smile  once  more. 

If  tliey  do  get  mysterious  illnesses  they  will  attribute  them  to 
superaatural  causes,  saying  a  Nereid  or  a  sprite  has  struck  them,  and 


I 


I 


A  Romance  of  a  Greek  Statue. 

nCTcr  suspect  the  damp.  Nature's  own  pupils  the7  are.  Tiieir  only 
medical  suggestion  is  that  all  illnesses  are  worms  iu  tlie  body,  which 
have  been  distributed  by  God's  agents,  the  mysterious  and  invisible 
inhabitants  of  the  air,  to  those  whose  sin  requires  chastising,  or  whose 
days  are  numbered.  Such  is  the  simple  bacillus  theory  prevalent  In 
the  Greek  islands.     Who  knows  but  what  they  are  right  ? 

*'  Never  was  a  poor  fellow  in  such  perplexity  as  I  was,"  continued 
Nikola,  "  the  possessor  of  a  marble  woman  whose  value  I  could  not 
[earn,  and  about  whom  I  did  not  care  one  straw,  whilst  I  yearned 
after  a  woman  whose  value  1  knew  to  be  a  thousand  drachmas,  and 
whom  I  could  not  buy.  My  hope,  too,  was  rendered  more  acute  by 
the  vague  idea  that  perhaps  my  treasure  might  prove  to  be  as  valuable 
as  Kailirhoe,  and  I  smiled  to  think  of  the  folly  of  the  man  who 
would  be  likely  to  prefer  the  cold  marble  statue  to  my  plump,  warm 
Kailirhoe.  But  they  tell  me  that  you  cold  Northerners  have  hearts 
of  marble,  so  I  prayed  to  the  Panagia  and  all  the  saints  to  send 
some  one  who  would  take  the  statue  away,  and  give  me  enough  money 
(o  buy  Kailirhoe. 

*'  I  was  much  more  lively  now ;  my  father  and  brothers  had  no 
cause  to  scold  me  any  longer,  for  I  had  hope  ;  every  evening  now  1 
wertl  to  the  cafe  lo  talk,  and  all  the  energy  of  my  existence  was 
devoted  lo  one  object,  namely,  to  get  the  Demarch  to  tell  me  all  he 
knew  about  the  chances  of  selling  treasures  in  that  big  world  where 
the  steamer  went,  without  letting  him  know  that  I  had  found  any- 
thing. After  many  fruitless  efforts,  one  day  the  Demarch  told  me 
how,  in  the  old  Turkish  days,  before  he  was  bom,  a  peasant  of  Melcs 
had  found  a  statue  of  a  woman  called  Aphrodite,  just  as  I  had  found 
mine,  in  a  heap  of  slones ;  that  the  peasant  had  got  next  to  nothing 
for  it,  but  that  Mr.  Brest,  the  French  consul,  had  made  a  fortune  out 
of  it,  and  that  now  the  statue  was  the  wonder  of  the  Western  wotld. 
By  degrees  I  learnt  how  relentless  foreigners  like  you,  Effendi,  do 
swoop  down  from  time  to  time  on  these  islands  and  carry  home 
what  is  worth  thousands  of  drachmas,  after  giving  next  to  nothing  for 
Ihem.  A  week  or  two  later,  I  learnt  from  the  Demarch's  lips  how 
strict  the  Greek  Government  is,  ihat  no  marble  should  leave  the 
Country,  and  lhat  they  never  give  anything  like  the  value  for  the 
•hings  themselves,  but  that  sometimes  by  dealing  with  a  foreign 
effendi  in  Athens  good  prices  have  been  got  and  the  Government 
duded. 

Poor  me!  in  those  days  my  hopes  grew  very  very  small  indeed. 

could  I,  an  ignorant  peasant,  hope  to  get  any  money  from  any- 

Vjody?  So  I  thought  less  and  less  about  my  sta.l\ie,a.>\dm,Qteatidn\Qi 


1 


The  Gmtlemafis  Magazine. 

about  Kallirhoe,  until  my  face  looked  haggard  again,  and  my  moS 

sighed. 

"  My  statue  had  been  in  her  grave  nearly  a  year,"  laughed 
Nikola,  "  and  after  the  way  of  the  world  she  was  nearly  forgotten, 
when  one  day  a  caique  put  in  to  Sikinos,  and  two  foreign  effmdi — 
Franks,  I  believe— came  up  to  the  town;  ihey  were  the  first  that  had 
visited  our  rock  since  the  German  who  had  opened  the  graves  on 
the  hillside,  and  had  carried  off  a  lot  of  gold  and  precious  things. 
So  ive  all  stared  at  them  very  hard,  and  gathered  in  crowds  around 
the  Demarch's  door  to  get  a  glimpse  at  them  as  they  sat  at  table.  I 
was  one  of  the  crowd,  and  as  I  looked  at  them  I  thought  of  my 
buried  statue,  and  my  hope  flickered  again. 

"  Very  soon  the  report  went  about  amongst  us  that  they  were 
s  from  Laurion,  come  to  inspect  our  island  and  see  if  we  had 
anything  valuable  in  the  way  of  minerals;  and  my  father,  whose  vision 
it  had  been  for  years  to  iind  a  mine  and  make  himself  rich  thereby, 
was  greatly  excited,  and  offered  to  lend  the  strangers  his  mules. 
The  old  man  was  too  infirm  to  go  himself,  greatly  to  his  regret,  but 
he  sent  me  as  muleteer,  with  directions  to  conduct  the  miners  to 
certain  points  of  the  island,  and  to  watch  narrowly  everything  they 
picked  up.  Many  times  during  the  day  I  was  tempted  to  tell  them 
all  about  my  statue  and  my  hopes,  but  I  remembered  what  the 
Demarch  had  said  about  greedy  foreigners  robbing  poor  islanders.  So 
I  contented  myself  with  asking  ail  sorts  of  questions  about  Athens  ; 
who  was  the  richest  foreign  effendi  there,  and  did  he  buy  statues? 
what  sort  of  thing  was  the  custom,  and  should  1,  who  came  from 
another  part  of  Greece,  be  subject  to  it  if  1  went  ?  I  sighed  to  go  to 
Athens. 

"  All  day  I  watched  them  closely,  noted  what  sort  of  stones  they 
picked  up,  noted  their  satisfaction  or  dissatisfaction,  and  as  I  watched 
them  an  idea  struck  me — an  idea  which  made  my  heart  leap  and 
tremble  with  excitement. 

"  That  evening  I  told  my  father  some  of  those  lies  which  hurt 
nobody,  and  are  therefore  harmless,  as  the  priests  say,  I  told  him  I 
had  acquired  a  great  knowledge  of  stones  that  day,  that  I  knew 
where  priceless  minerals  were  to  be  found  ;  I  drew  on  ray  imagination 
about  possible  hidden  stores  of  gold  and  silver  in  our  rocky  Sikinos. 
I  saw  that  I  had  touched  the  right  chord,  for  though  he  always  told  us 
hard-working  lads  that  an  oHve  with  a  kernel  gives  a  boot  to  a  man, 
yet  I  felt  sure  that  his  inmost  ideas  soared  higher,  and  that  he  was, 
like  the  rest  of  the  Sikiniotes,  deeply  imbued  with  the  idea  t 


idea.  t]ll^_ 


L       mineral  ireasutes,  if  only  they  could  be  found,  would  give  a  man  more 

L     Han  boots. 

H         "From  that  day  my  mode  of  life  was  changed.     Instead  of 

F  dialing  in  the  fields  and  tending  the  vines,  I  wandered  aimlessly 
about  the  island  collecting  specimens  of  stones.  I  chose  them  at 
random — those  which  had  some  bright  colour  in  them  were  the  best 
— and  every  e\'ening  I  added  some  fresh  specimens  to  my  collection, 
which  were  placed  for  safety  in  barrels  in  the  store.  '  Don't  say  a 
word  to  the  neighbours,'  was  my  father's  injunction  ;  and  I  really 
twlicve  thej'  all  thought  my  reason  was  leaving  me,  or  how  else  could 
Khey  account  for  my  daily  wanderings  ? 

"  In  about  a  month's  time  I  had  collected  enough  specimens  for  my 
purpose,  and  then,  with  considerable  trepidation,  one  evening  I  dis- 
<::lo5ed  my  plan  to  my  father.  '  Something  must  be  done  with  those 
specimens,'  I  began  ;  and  as  I  said  this  I  saw  with  pleasure  his  old 
^res  sparkle  as  he  tried  to  look  unconcerned. 

I" '  Well,  Kola,  what  is  to  be  done  with  tliem  P ' 
" '  Simply  this,  father.     I  must  take  them  to  Athens  or  Launon, 
and  get  money  down  for  showing  the  effcndi  where  the  mines  are. 
"^Ve  can't  work  them  ourselves.' 
"  'To  Athens !  to  Laurion  I'  exclaimed  my  father,  breathless  at 
Ihe  bare  notion  of  so  stupendous  a  journey. 
"•Of  course  I  must,'  I  added,  laughing,  though  secretly  terrified 
lest  he  should  flatly  refuse  to  let  me  go ;  and  before  I  went  to  bed 
that  night  my  father  promised  to  gi\e  me  ten   drachmas  for  my 
expenses.     'Only  take  a  few  of  your  specimens,  Kola;  keep  the  best 
back ; '   for  my  father  is  a  shrewd  man,  though  he  has  never  left 
Sikinos.     But  on  this  point  I  was  determined,  and  would  take  all  or 

I  none,  so  my  father  grumbled  and  called  me  a '  peacock,'  but  for  this  I 
did  not  care. 
**  Next  day  I  ordered  a  box  for  my  specimens.  '  Why  not  take 
them  in  the  old  barrels?'  growled  my  father.  But  I  said  they  might 
get  broken,  and  the  specimens  inside  be  seen.  So  at  last  a  wooden 
hox,  just  four  feet  long  and  two  feet  high,  was  got  ready— not  without 
<3  iificuliy  either,  for  wood  in  Sikinos  is  rarer  than  quails  at  Christmas, 
^jid  my  father  grumbled  not  a  little  at  the  sum  he  had  to  pay  for  it 

more  than  half  the  produce  of  his  vintage,  poor  man !    And  when  I 

thought  how  my  mother  might  not  be  able  to  make  any  cheesecakes 
^t  E^ter— the  pride  of  her  heart,  poor  thing  ! — I  almost  regretted  the 
^ame  I  was  playing." 

The  Easter  cheesecakes  of  the  island  (rvpomjirn)  are  what  they 
■jnofess  to  be  ;  cheese,  curd,  saffron,  and  flour  being  the  chief  ingre- 


dients.     They  are  reckoned  an  essential  luxury  at  that  time '0 
year,  and  some  houses  make  as  many  as  sixty.     It  is  a  sign  of  great 
poverty  and  deprivalion  when  none  are  made. 

"The  caique  was  to  leave  next  morning  if  the  wind  was  favour- 
able for  los,  where  the  steamer  would  toucii  on  the  following  day, 
and  take  me  on  nay  wild,  uncertain  journey.  I  don't  think  I  can  be 
called  a  coward  for  feeling  nervous  on  this  occasion.  I  admit  that 
it  was  only  by  thinking  steadfasdy  about  Kallirhoe  that  I  could  screw 
up  my  courage.  When  it  was  quite  dark  I  took  the  wooden  key  of 
ihe  store,  and,  as  carelessly  as  I  could,  said  I  was  going  to  pack  my 
specimens.  My  brotiiers  volunteered  to  come  and  help  me,  for  they 
were  all  mighty  civil  now  it  became  known  that  I  was  bound  for 
Athens  to  make  heaps  of  money,  but  I  refused  their  help  with  a  surly 
'  good  night,'  and  set  off  into  the  darkness  alone  with  my  spade.  I 
was  horribly  nervous  as  I  went  along  ;  I  thought  T  saw  a  Nereid  or 
a  Lamia  in  every  olive-tree.  At  the  least  rustle  I  thought  they  were 
swooping  down  upon  me,  and  would  carry  me  off  into  the  air,  and  I 
should  be  made  to  marry  one  of  those  terrible  creatures  and  live  in 
a  mountain  cavern,  which  would  be  worse  than  losing  Kallirhoe 
altogether ;  but  St.  Nikolas  and  the  I'anagia  helped  me,  and  I  dug 
my  statue  up  without  any  molestation. 

"  She  was  a  great  weight  to  carry  all  by  herself,  but  at  last  I  got 
her  into  the  store,  and  deposited  her  in  her  new  coffin,  wedged  her 
in,  and  cast  a  last,  almost  affectionate  look  at  this  marble  representa- 
tion of  life,  which  had  been  so  constantly  in  my  thoughts  for  months 
and  months,  and  finally  I  proceeded  to  bury  her  with  specimens, 
coveringherso  well  that  not  a  vestige  of  marble  could  be  seen  for  three 
inches  below  the  surface.  What  a  weight  the  box  was  !  I  could  not 
lift  it  myself,  but  the  deed  was  done,  so  1  nailed  the  lid  on  lightly, 
and  deposited  what  was  over  of  my  specimens  in  the  hole  where  the 
statue  had  been  reposing,  and  then  I  lay  down  on  the  floor  to  rest, 
not  daring  to  go  out  again  or  leave  my  treasure.  I  thought  it  never 
would  be  morning  ;  every  hour  of  the  night  I  looked  out  to  see  if 
there  was  any  fear  of  a  change  of  wind,  but  it  blew  quietly  and 
steadily  from  the  north  ;  it  was  quite  clear  that  we  should  be  able  to 
make  losos  next  morning  without  any  difficulty. 

"  As  soon  as  it  was  light  I  went  home,  My  mother  was  up,  and 
packing  my  wallet  with  bread  and  olives.  She  had  put  a  new  cover  on 
my  mattress,  which  I  was  to  take  with  me.  The  poor  old  dear  could 
hardly  speak,  so  agitated  was  she  at  my  departure  ;  my  brothers  and 
father  looked  on  with  solemn  respoct ;  and  I — why,  I  sat  staring  out  of 
dw  window  to  sec  Kallirhoe  returning  from  the  well  with  her  atnphora 


A  Romance  of  a  Greek  Statm: 

on  lier  head.     As  soon  as  I  saw  her  coming,  I  rushed  out  to  bid  her  J 
pQod-bye.    We  shook  hand^    I  had  not  done  this  for  twelve  months 
now,  and  the  effect  was  to  raise  my  courage  to  the  highest  pitch,  and 
bjTiisli  lU  my  nocturnal  fears. 

"Mother  spilt  a  jug  of  water  on  the  threshold,  as  an  earnest  ol 
iiiccess  and  a  happy  return.  My  father  and  my  brothers  came  down 
w  the  store  to  help  me  put  the  box  on  to  the  mule's  back,  and  greatly 
thcjmurmured  at  the  weight  thereof.  '  There's  gold  there,'  muttered 
ni(  father  benealli  his  breath.  '  Kola  will  be  a  prince  some  day,' 
gtOBleil  my  eldest  brother  jealously,  and  I  promised  to  make  him 
Epaich  of  Santorin,  or  Demarch  of  Sikinos  if  he  liked  that  better. 

"TbR  bustle  of  the  journey  hardly  gave  me  a  moment  for  thought. 
I  was  very  ill  crossing  over  in  the  caique  to  los,  during  which  time 
my  cowardice  came  over  me  again,  and  I  wondered  if  Kallirhoe  was 
»onh  all  the  trouble  I  was  taking  ;  but  I  was  lost  in  astonishment  at 
llie  steamer — so  astonished  that  I  had  no  time  to  \>c.  sick,  so  I  was 

»ible  to  eat  some  olives  that  evening,  and  as  I  lay  on  my  mattress  on 
llw  steamer's  deck  as  we  hurried  on  towards  the  Pirasus,  I  pondered 
"ver  what  I  should  do  on  reaching  land. 
I  "Vou  know  what  the  Pirsus  is  like,  Efferdi?"  continued 
Hikola,  after  a  final  pause  and  a  hnal  glass  of  raki,  "what  a  city  it 
it,  what  bustle  and  rushing  to  and  fro  I " 
I  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  him  that  in  England  many  a  fishing 
vrtkge  is  larger,  and  the  scene  of  greater  excitement. 

"They  all  laughed  at  me  for  my  heavy  box,  my  island  accent,  my 
island  dress,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  kind  falUkari  I  had  met  on 
the  flea mer,  I  think  I  should  have  gone  mad.     The  officers  of  the 
•^siom  house  were  walking  about  on  the  quay,  peering  suspiciously 
'nio  the  luggage  of  the  newly  arrived,  and  naturally  my  heavy  box 
Wed  their  suspicions.     1  was  prepared  for  some  difficulty  of  this 
Id,  and  the  agony  of  my  interview  quite  dispelled  my  confusion. 
What  have  you  there  ? ' 
i«iy^Ta  (specimens),'  I  replied. 
Specimens  of  what  ? ' 

Specimens  of  minerals  for  the  cffendtsX  Lautium.' 
Open  the  box ! '  And,  in  an  agony  of  fright,  I  saw  them  tear  off 
lid  of  mjf  treasure  and  dive  their  hands  into  its  contents. 
Stones  1 '  said  one  official 

Worthless  stones!'  sneered  another,  'let  the  fool  go'j  and 
,    *-V»  scant  ceremony  they  threw  the  stones  back  into  the  box,  and 

*-*^'ed  me  and  my  box  away  with  a  cuise. 
■  "1  was  now  free  to  go  wheresoever  1  wished,  and  with  the  aid  °^  ^jk 


The  Gentleman's  Magazi?ii. 

my  friend  I  found  a  room  into  which  I  put  my  box,  and  as  I  turned 
the  key,  and  sallied  forth  on  my  uncertain  errand,  I  prayed  to  the 
Panagia  Odegetria  to  guide  my  footsteps  aright. 

"  The  next  few  days  were  a  period  of  intense  anxiety  for  me.  Id 
subdued  whispers  I  communicated  to  the  consuls  of  each  nation  the 
existence  of  my  treasure.  One  had  the  impudence  to  offer  me  only 
200  drachmas  for  it,  another  300,  another  400,  and  another  500  ;  then 
each  came  again,  advancing  laa  drachmas  on  their  former  bids,  and 
50  my  spirits  rose,  until  at  last  a  grand  effendi  came  down  from 
Athens,  and  without  hesitation  offered  me  1,000  drachmas.  '  Give  me 
fifty  more  for  the  trouble  of  bringing  it  and  you  shall  have  it,'  said  I, 
breathless  with  excitement,  and  in  five  minutes  the  lODg-coveted 
money  was  in  my  hands. 

"  My  old  father  was  very  wroth  when  I  returned  to  Sikinos,  and 
when  he  learnt  that  I  had  done  nothing  with  my  specimens ;  the 
brightness  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes,  he  was  more  opprobrious  than 
ever,  but  I  cared  nothing  for  what  he  said.  My  mother  had  her 
cheesecakes  on  Easter  Sunday,  and  on  that  very  day  Kallirhoe  and 
J  were  crowned." 

Thus  ended  Nikola's  romance.  If  ever  I  go  to  St,  Petersburg,  I 
shall  look  carefully  for  Nikola's  statue  in  the  Hermitage  collection, 
which,  I  understand,  was  its  destination, 

J.  THEODORE  BENT. 


■  8s 


SHAKESPEARE  FOLIOS  AND 
'  QUARTOS. 

SHAKESPEARE,  so  deep,  philosophical,  occult,  inexhaustible 
almost  in  repayment  of  the  student — so  overlaid  with  specu- 
Isttoos  and  commentaries — has  so  far   furnished  a  vast  contribu- 
tion to  the  "  libraries  of  the  curious."  He  stands  alone  in  this  fruitfuU 
n«i;  Racine,  Molifere,  and  other  great  classics  offering  their  text 
■ithoul  exciting  controversy  and   displaying  their  meaning  without 
diicully.    But  we  must  add  to  this  fruitfulness  the  strange  dispensa- 
tion which  attends  the  great :  that  sense  of  mystery  and  obscurity 
*hifh  prevents  us  ever  reaching,  with  anything  approaching  assurance, 
lo  Hie  knowledge  that  we  have  or  know  what  Shakespeare  really 
«oie— we  must  depend  on  various  and  conflicting  versions.     As  in 
ilie  case  of  the  oracles,  we  hold  the  general  sense,  but  tlie  literal  and 
f«ci  form  escapes  us.     As  is  i\'ell  known,  there  is  no  authorised 
'""iwi  of  Shakespeare.     There  is,  in  fact,  no  authority,  and,  strangest 
"f  all,  the  writer  of  these  immortal  pieces,  unlike  other  authors,  was 
II       '"si  concerned  with  their  publication  and  editing.     The  man  who 
^^  Woie  for  ail  lime  seems  not  to  have  cared  to  bring  his  work  before 
^■"e  British  public,  nor  to  have  bethought  him  of  editing,  printing. 
^F'conecting  the  press,  or  of  any  of  those  welcome  incidents  that 
"•oid  on  authorship.     He  was,  indeed,  an  author  that  did  not  write 
''°'"  the  Press." 

This  curious  fate  has  naturally  had  extraordinary  results.  The 
^fks  given  to  the  press  by  others  than  the  author,  as  they  were  found, 
•^"^ked  up,  or  copied,  naturally  reflected  their  disorderly  origin,  each 
^'ipe  being  different,  and  often  opposed  to  the  other.  The  plays 
^•"e  clearly  printed  from  notes,  recollections,  and  rude  playhouse 
"^fies.  Further,  the  compositor  did  his  best  to  add  to  the  disorder, 
"^^i  every  page  of  the  folio  is  unpuncluated  and  teems  with  errors. 
In  truth,  it  is  with  the  works  of  Shakespeare  as  with  the  Scrip- 
ts ;  there  is  no  original  text,  but  only  the  best,  or  what  is  thought 
'*  best.  In  the  case  of  the  Scriptures  there  are  the  various  recognised 
"^'S.,  the  Vatican  and  others,  while  of  Shakespeare  there  are  the 
quartos  flnd  the  four  folios.     None  of  these  can  be  shown  to 

TOl,  CCLVIII.      HO.  1850,  O 


1., 


k 


1 86  Tlie  Gentleman* s  Magazine. 

have  had  any  relation  with  the  author  or  his  original  MS.  Hence 
none  has  more  special  claim  to  authority  than  its  fellows.  There  is  in 
fact  no  canonical  text  of  Shakespeare  to  which  we  can  appeal.  Hence  we 
see  it  is  impossible  to  decree  that  a  particular  disputed  line  was  written 
in  any  one  way.  Round  these  quartos  and  the  four  folios  there  floats 
a  cloud  of  almost  romantic  details.  Behind  which  we  make  out  the 
army  of  laborious  commentators,  giving  days  and  nights,  and  whole 
lives,  to  the  comparing  of  copies,  the  counting  of  lines,  the  searching 
for  analogous  passages  in  other  authors,  until  a  perfect  flood  of  light 
has  been  shed  upon  the  question.  Behind  them  are  ranged  the 
collectors  and  their  searchings— the  story  of  some  rare  quarto — the 
restorations — and,  above  all,  the  "  fearsome  "  prices.  These,  it  may 
be  conceived,  will  be  rising  with  every  year,  owing  to  the  demand 
in  America  and  the  Colonies. 

One  element  in  the  value  of  the  first  Shakespeare  folio,  which 
accounts  for  the  great  price  given  for  a  really  good  perfect  copy, 
is  that  it  shall  be,  in  our  author's  words,  one  entire  and  perfect 
chrysolite — **uncut,''  and  formed  of  the  sheets  which  were  put 
together  originally.  Nothing  is  more  mysterious  than  the  fate  that 
seems  to  pursue  these  comparatively  modem  volumes  :  works  a 
hundred  and  a  hundred  and  thirty  years  older  have  fared  infinitely 
better,  and  have  swept  down  the  rapids  of  time  without  the  least 
damage  or  wreckage.  But  this  work  is  found  frayed,  maimed,  im- 
perfect, leaves  and  sheets  torn  out  in  the  middle,  the  beginning,  and 
end.  Almost  every  copy,  save  two  or  three  that  can  be  named,  is 
"made  up" — that  is,  the  defects  of  one  are  supplemented  from  others. 

George  Steevens  supplies  a  fair  reason.  "  Of  all  volumes,''  he 
says,  "  those  of  popular  entertainment  are  soonest  injured.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  name  four  folios  that  are  oftener  found  in  dirty, 
mutilated  condition  than  this  first  assemblage  of  Shakespeare's 
plays,  *  God's  Revenge  against  Murder,'  *  The  Gentleman's  Recrea- 
tion,* and  Johnson's  'Lives  of  the  Highwaymen.'*  This  folio 
Shakespeare,"  he  goes  on,  "  was  generally  found  on  the  hall 
tables  of  mansions,  and  that  a  multitude  of  his  pages  *  have  this 
effect  of  gravy  *  may  be  imputed  to  the  various  eatables  set  out  on 
the  same  boards.  I  have  repeatedly  met  with  flakes  of  pie -crust 
between  the  leaves  of  our  author.     These  unctuous  fragments  reroain- 

*  A  curious  concatenation,  whicli  suggests  a  capital  story  of  a  similar  odd 
association  :  A  well-known  judge  had,  in  his  early  days  at  the  bar,  published  a 
work  on  **  Chancery  J'racticc,"  which  was  but  poorly  esteemed  by  his  brethren, 
and  indeed  did  not  sell.  One  of  his  more  malicious  friends  always  protested  that 
he  had  just  entered  the  sale  rooms  to  hear  the  auctioneer  announcing  in  suave 
tones,  **  The  next  lot,  gentlemen,  will  be  a  miscellany^  consisting  of  a  bootjack^ 
A  small  pencll-eaM.  vuLlm$^  Ckeuuety  Proctice:]      .       . 


liglong  in  close  confinement,  communicated  their  grease  to  several 

pigK  deep  on  each  side  of  them.  Since  our  breakfasts  have  become 

Ids  gross,  our  favourite  authors  have  escaped  with  fewer  injuries.     I 

chiia  to  be  the  first  commentator  who  strove  with  becoming  serious- 

n«s  to  account  for  the  frequent  stains  that  disgrace  the  earliest 

(olio  edition  which  is  now  become  the  most  expensive  book  in  our 

I       liDguage,     For,"  asks  tlie  astonished  Steevens,  "  what  other  English 

^^  mlnine,  without  plates,   and  printed  since  the  year  1600,  is   now 

^BWivi  to  have  sold  more  than  oita  for  thirty-five  pounds  fourteen 

^^  Mlingsl"    WTiat  would  he  have  said  to  Lady  BurdettCoutts's  copy? 

There  is  a  pleasant  quaintness  in  all  this.    He  tells  us,  moreover, 

Ifiat  most  of  the  first  folios  then  extant  belonged  to  ancient  families 

resident  in  iJie  country. 

Every  possible  adulteration,  he  tells,  has  of  late  years  (that  is 
iiiiy  years  since)  been  practised  in  fitting  up  copies  of  this  book  for 
ule,  "  \Vhen  leaves  are  wanting,  they  have  been  reprinted  with 
klltrd/ types,  and  foisted  into  vacancies.  When  the  title  lias  been 
lost,  a  spurious  one  has  been  fabricated,  with  a  blank  space  left  for 
the  bead  of  Shakespeare,  afterwards  added  for  the  second,  third,  or 
fourth  impressions.  To  conceal  these  frauds,  tliicfc  vermilion  lines 
hare  been  usually  drawn  over  the  edges  of  the  engravings,  and  dis- 
toloured  with  tobacco  water  till  it  had  assumed  the  true  jaune 
mtique.  Sometimes  leaves  have  been  inserted  from  the  second  folio, 
>nd,  in  a  known  instance,  the  entire  play  of  Cymbelinc,  the 
genuine  date  being  altered."  And  this  is  the  more  easy,  as  the 
niMter  of  both  editions  corresponds  exactly  page  by  page  and  line 

ktorliae,  though  differing  in  words, 
la  i8zi,  a  pleasant  writer,  Mr.  Davis,  in  his  "Journey  round  the 
Ubiary  of  a   Bibliomaniac,"  quotes  some  prices  given  for  this  in- 
teresting volume.   In  1792,  Daly's copybroughtj£'3o;  Heathcote's  (title 
Wanting),  j£zT,  S.  Ireland's,  in   iSoi,  ^14  ;  Dote  of  Roxburgh's, 
jC'oo  ;  Sebrighl's,  in  1807  (title  wanting),  ^30 ;  Stanley's  (title  also 
*^ling).^37  ;  Sir  P.  Thompson's,  in  1S15,  ^41  ;  and  in  1818,  at 
*hc  Sanders  sale,  "  a  fine  original  copy  in  a  genuine  state  "  brought 
^121.     The  third,  he  adds,  is  nearly  as  valuable  as  the  first,  the 
■Jecond  is  "  adulterated  "  in  every  page.     Droeshout's  portrait  served 
^Kr  all  the  four  editions.     "  Good  or  first  impressions  are  valued  by 
Hfc%s  at   about   five   guineas,    inferior  ones  are  scarcely  worth  a 
'Btinea,  as  the  lines  have  been  crossed  over  the  face  to  give  strength 
*°lhe  impression  ;  and  Mr.  Caulfield,  a  competent  judge  in  these 
'^tcrs,  says  the  only  way  to  disco\'er  the  genuine  is  by  obsen-ing 
>*^  shading  of  the  face,  to  be  expressed  by  single  lines."    So  min- 
W^  is  this  grave  question  discussed. 


A 


iS8  The  GentleniatCs  Magazim. 

'<Mr.  Garrickf'*  Steevens  tells  us,  ''about  forty  years  ago,  paid 
only  one  pound  sixteen  to  Mr.  Payne,  at  the  Meuse  Gate,  for  a  fine 
copy  of  this  folio.  After  the  death  of  our  Roscius  it  should  have 
accompanied  his  collection  of  Old  Plays  to  the  Museum,  but  had 
been  taken  out  of  his  library  and  had  not  been  heard  of  since.** 

At  the  sale  of  ''  an  Eminent  Collector,"  in  1847,  there  was  a 
copy  of  the  first  folio,  in  old  russia — described  as  "  a  genuine  copy, 
and  in  no  degree  made  up.  It  is  complete  in  every  respect,  with  the 
I)ortrait  and  original  leaf  of  Ben  Jonson's  verses,  and  is  remarkably 
pure.  Indeed,  it  may  be  styled  an  immaculate  cop}\  and  would  adorn 
the  richest  and  most  curious  library  extant"  It  brought  ^^155,  and 
was  probably  the  first  of  Mr.  Gardner's  quartett. 

At  this  well-known  sale  of  Mr.  Dunn  Gardner's,  a  gentleman 
who  admitted  nothing  but  what  was  choice  and  as  nearly  perfect  as 
ix>ssible,  the  four  folios  were  sold.  They  were  thus  described,  and 
the  "  notes  "  and  marks  of  each  may  be  found  useful. 

2058  SHAKESPEARE.    Mr.    William    SHAKEsr£ARE*s    Comedies    and 

Tragedies.  Published  according  to  ihe  Tnic  Original  Copies. 
London.  Printed  by  Isacu  Ja^ard  and  Ed,  Blount^  1623. 
*<i*  FIRST  EDITION.  This  copy,  from  the  Libraries  of  Mr.  Hibbert  and  Mr. 
Wilks,  is  ONE  OF  THE  FINEST  coriES  KNOWN,  and  withoot  doubt,  the 
FINEST  that  has  ever  been  sold  by  public  auction.  It  niay,  though 
iKiund  in  russin,  with  border  of  gold,  in  the  quiet  and  good  taste  of 
Montague,  be  called  in  its  original  state,  and  may  be  fairly  stated,  as 
far  as  a  book  can  be  so  designated,  an  immaculate  copy. 

2059  Shakespeare's  (Mr.  \Villiam)  Comedies,  &c.,  as  before, 

THE  second  impression,  russia,  gilt  edges, 

London^  Printed  by  Tho.  Cotes,  for  Robert  Allot,  and  are  to  be  sold  at 
his  shop,  at  the  signe  of  the  Blacke  Bearein  PauVs  Chureh-yard,  1 632. 
The  leaf  with  the  lines  preceding  the  title  is  in  this  copy  shorter  than  the 
work  itself,  that  being  unusually  large, 

2060  Shakespeare's  (Mr.  William)  Comedies,  &c.,  as  before, 

THE  THIRD  IMPRESSION,  FINE  COPY,  russia,  gilt  edges, 

London,  Jointed  for  Philip  Chetwindc,  1663. 
EXTREMELY  RARE,  nay,  almost  as  rare  as  the  first  edition,  owing  to  the 
greater  portion  of  the  impression  being  destroyed  in  the  Great  Fire  of 
London.     The  title  page  bears  the  same  portrait,  and  a  leaf  with  the 
same  lines  precedes  it. 
2061.  Shakespear's  (Mr.  \Villiam)  Comedies,  &c.,  as  before,  to  which  is  added. 
Seven  Plays  never  before  Printed  in  Folio,  &c. 
THE  FOURTH  EDITION,  FINE  COPY,  russia,  marbUd edges,  1685 

•»•  The  same  portrait  was  used  for  this  edition,  after  having  been  retouched ; 
it  here  occupies  the  upper  part  of  a  leaf  preceding  the  title,  having  the 
metrical  lines  beneath  it.  The  work  is  printed  in  a  larger  size,  the  pre- 
fatory matter  occupying  only  four  pages. 

A  London  bookseller  had  lately  on  sale  "  Mr.  William  Shake* 
sjjcare's  Comedies,  Histories,  and  Tragedies,  Published  according  to 
the  True  Originall  Copies,  the  Second  Impression,  with  portrait  by 


Shakespeare  Folios  and  Onarios. 

sbout,  folio,  fine  tall  copy  in  russia  extra,  gilt  edges,  with  arms 
ttanipcd  in  gold  on  the  sides."  Thirty  guineas  was  the  price  asked. 
Acopfof  unusual  inlemt,  iiarllj  from  the  fact  thai  il  belonged  to  Daviil 
Cuiick,  uid  cootaiiu  liis  bookplate,  and  partly  because  copies  are  laiely  rounil 
(itlliMk  U^  maigina-  It  measures  13!  inches  by  9,  and  his  some  ai  Ihe 
Itinsvith  ROUGH  CKCL'T  EDGES,  in  which  slate  ne  topy  is  on  record  but  that  of 
Citrgi  Daniel,  which  was  tie  largril  examfU  inmim,  and  sold  for  ^148.  The 
Fokini  copy,  mcaxuiing  half  on  inch  less  than  ours,  brought  ^44  ;  and  the  Ouvry 
copy,  which  was  smaller  still,  sold  for  £^6.  The  vetsc  opposite  the  litle  and  a 
)i<^i)f  ibe  last  leaf  are  in  admirable  facsimile,  and  a  part  of  the  marein  of  the 
tide  lui  been  skilfully  lepalred. 

Il  is  a  nice  question  whether  the  original  sheets  of  so  old  a  book 
ciBstiiLitc  the  identity,  and  whether  the  substitution  of  a  sheet, 
practically  the  same,  makes  any  legal  difference.  The  truth  is,  the 
original  sheets  belong  to  each  other  and  acquire  from  the  companion - 
sliip  a  special  casle— they  .ire  the  same  under  the  same  atmosphere — 
ihe  ame  pressure — the  same  sewing  and  binding — the  same  "  lie," 
wit  were.  So  that  a  new  intruder  is  a  disturber,  and  does  net 
belong  to  the  party.  It  is  curious,  too,  how  this  is  betrayed  to  the 
skilful  and  practised  eye.  It  was  thus  that  Mr.  Croker,  susjiecting,  from 
tie  text,  some  suppression  in  Ihe  second  edition  of  Boswell's  "  Tour," 
iwk  the  book  to  pieces,  and  discovered  "  a  cancel  "—that  is,  only  a 
l«rtion  of  a  sheet  had  been  sewn  in. 

At  the  Perkins  sale,  in  1873,  where  everything  was  of  the  choicest 
snd  rarest  quality,  there  were  the  four  FoHos,  quietly  described  as 
"i  superb  set."  All  were  bound  in  crimson  morocco,  with  joints 
afid  gilt  leaves,  and  by  measurement  were  13^  inches  by  8J^  inches 
'"f  the  first,  13  inches  by  9  inches  for  the  second,  13^  inches  by 
H  inches  for  the  third,  and  14  inches  by  9  inches  for  the  fourth.  Il 
■Js  noted,  with  just  pride,  that  the  first  folio  was  of  exactly  the  same 
''""ensions  as  that  of  the  famous  Daniel  copy,  while  the  third  was 
'^n  eighth  of  an  inch  taller"\  The  third  brought  ^105,  the 
'<*''nh^ia. 

This  Perkins  "  first  folio,"  it  may  be  added,  with  that  of  the 
^^iel  of  1864,  form  the  two  most  famous  copies,  from  the  high 
J^^es  they  realised.  For  this  brought  jC^^1>i  ^^^  came  from 
*''■  Dent's  collection.  Bat  a  greater  celebrity  attended  the  Daniel 
^^Py.  This  was  knocked  down  for  seven  hundred  and  sixteen 
[^Unds  two  shillings !  This  spirited  price  was  given  by  a  well- 
*^Own  opulent  lady,  whose  collection  it  now  adorns. 

With  these  alarmist  prices  in  view,  it  may  seem  strange  to  tell, 

^^l  the  modest  collector,  who  looks  out  steadily  and  perse veringly, 

J^^l  watches  his  opportunity,  may  in  time  come  into  possession  of 

^se  ■'  scarcities."    The  writer  of  these  notes,  in  the  short  space  of 


icjo  The  GentUmans  Magazine. 

two  years,  has  contrived  to  secure  the  four  folios,  each  of  course 
imperfect  and  lacking  a  few  pages,  and  rather  '*  cropped,"  but  satis- 
factory though  not  brilh'ant  copies.  The  first  folio  cost  him  twelve 
pounds,  the  second  three,  the  thnd  eight,  and  the  fourth  about  the 
same — total,  about  thirty  pounds.  In  the  future  it  mill  be  difficult  to 
be  so  successful.  To  these  he  has  added  a  fine  chronological  col- 
lection of  EditionSi  mostly  illustrated — a  noble  monument  to  the 
pfjpularity  of  the  Bard.  Here  are  the  four  massive  and  sumptuous 
<Iuarto  editions — Pope's,  Hanmer's,  Heath's,  and  BoydelFs — on  the 
pnxluciionofwhich  about  ;;^  1 50,000  must  have  been  si)ent.  Then  follow 
fine  octavo  sets — Kowe,  Theobald,  M alone,  Bell,  Steevens,  Bulmer, 
Harness,  Knight,  (Gilbert,  Edition  de  Luxe,  &c  No  writer  abroad 
has  been  so  honoured.  There  are  devastating  collectors,  who  *'  illus- 
trate ''  a  copy  of  Shakespeare  with  plates  cut  out  from  all  these 
volumes,  and  these  pictures  amount  to  many  thousand.  In  the  year 
iS.»4  a  Mr.  Wilson  obtained  celebrity  for  a  collection  of  this  kind,  so 
extensive  and  important  that  a  book  was  published  containing  a  list 
of  these  spoliations,  to  furnish  the  collector  ''  with  a  catalogue  from 
whi(  h  he  may  select  the  more  accessible  materials  for  the  illustration  of 
our  ^^cat  bard/'  />.  those  books  from  which  he  may  cut  out  pictures. 

The  finest  Shakespearean  emprize  of  our  own  times  was  the  grand 
ediliiju  in  sixlecn  solid  folio  volumes,  issued  by  Mr.  Halliwell.  This 
inulerlukinj^  proposed  to  comprise  all  that  has  been  said  on  the  poet 
It  was  handsomely  and  copiously  illustrated,  and  a  volume  was 
th'voted  to  his  life.  It  was  issued  by  subscription  at  63  guineas  the 
Ml,  and  only  150  copies  were  printed,  there  being  a  signed 
v\\\^A^v\\\v\\\  on  the  part  of  the  printer  not  to  print  more,  or  even  to 
use  any  of  the  *•  waste  sheets  "  printed  to  supply  the  place  of  any 
that  had  been  Hoiled.  This  valuable  work,  which  rarely  appears  in 
tin'  market,  fetches  about  ^'80.  The  print,  however,  of  the  plays  is 
iui'llertive  and  overpowered,  as  in  some  revivals  of  the  plays,  by 
tiJo  lavish  scenery  and  decorations,  by  commentary  and  notes. 

A  Ninall  vohnne  might  be  written  on  the  little  quarto  plays, 
and  nothing  is  more  interesting  than  the  contending  claims  of  the 
tlillerent  editions  and  readings.  The  labour  and  cost  that  has  been 
incurrcil,  the  numberless  facsimiles  of  every  page  and  word,  so  that 
the  explorer  should  have  the  various  editions  before  him  for  his 
studies,  is  very  extraordinary.  These  facsimiles  have  been  several 
tinics  produced,  either  in  perfect  facsimile,  or  in  ordinary  type,  and 
are  of  great  value  to  the  student  In  1871  that  spirited  Shakespearean, 
Mr.  Halliwell,  issued  facsimiles  of  the  early  quarto  plays  of  Shake- 
Hpeare,  inchiding  every  hmtm  edition  of  all  the  plays  which  were  issued 


Shakespeare  FoUos  and  Quarlos. 

in  the  dramatist's  lifetime.  There  were  forty-eight  volumes,  small  ' 
qoirto,  half  morocco.  Only  thirty-one  copies  were  privately  printed  ; 
five  or  six  sets  have  been  destroyed,  several  broken  up,  and  others 
locked  up  in  public  libraries,  so  lliat  complete  sets  are  now  becoming 
uceedingly  rare.  ;£"i6o  was  the  price  of  this  collection  !  At  the 
ptMent  moment  a  fresh  collection  is  being  issued  under  the  direction 
of  the  New  Shakespeare  Society,  which  will  only  cost  about  ^lo. 
They  are  exact  facsimiles.  Unfortunately,  a  fire  at  the  lithographer's 
premises  has  destroyed  some  of  the  impressions.  There  have  been 
tepeaicd  facsimiles  of  the  foiio,  notably  Mr.  Staunton's,  but  the  effect 
is  not  (ileasant.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  reproduce  a  volume,  in 
ordinary  type,  that  shall  be  an  exact  and  accurate  copy  of  the 
original.  The  third  folio,  which  was  set  from  the  second,  and  the 
ibuih,  from  the  second,  literally  teem  with  printer's  errors.  And 
Ml,  Upcott,  who  at  the  beginning  of  the  century  issued  a  reprint  of 
liie  first,  found  his  well-meant  effort  useless  and  worthless,  from  the 
innumerable  blunders.  It  is  curious  that  as  the  new  series  of  quartos  is 
lining  issued,  almost  before  it  is  half  completed,  the  first  issues  are 
disap[teaiing  anil  becoming  scaice.  It  is  in  Hamlet,  however, 
bihliographically  as  well  as  intellectually,  that  all  devotion  centres.  It 
is  here  that  the  tjuartos  and  folios  concentrate  all  their  interest,  and 
ihc  comparison  of  these  seven  or  eight  copies,  and  their  variations, 
^  exercised  the  wits  of  all  commentators. 

The  first  Hamlet  quarto  is  thus  introduced  : — 
The 
Tragicall  Hisloric  of 

HAMLET, 

FriiKi  of  Dcnmarhc. 

By  Williani  Shakespeare. 

il  h»lh  becne  divers  times  acted  by  his  Ilifilinesse  Servants  in  Ihe  Citie  of 

London  ;  as  also  in  the  two  Vnlversilies  of  Cambridge 

and  Oxford,  and  elK-where. 

At  London,  printed  for  N.  L.  and  John  Tmndell 

160  J. 

The  second  : — 

The 
Tisgicalt  Ilislotieof 

HAMLET, 

Ftinc<  bJ  Dinmarki. 

By  William  Shakespeare. 

'ly  impcinlcd  and  enlarged  to  about  as  much  againe  as  it  was,  according  lo  tlie 

true  and  perfect  coppie. 

At  London 

Primed  by  L  R.,  (or  N.  L.,  and  arc  la  lie  sold  at  his  Shoppe  vmder 

Saint  Dunstan's  Church  in  I'leet  Street, 

1004; 


The  Genlleman's  Magazine. 

The  ihird  edition  appeared  in  1605,  and  is  from  the  same  types 
and  formes.     Next  follows : — 

Shakespeare  (William)  Tragedy  of  Hamlet  Prince  of  Denraarke,  newl)-  imprinted 
and  inlsrged  accordiog  to  the  true  and  perfect  copjr  lastly  printed, 
meTOCie,  by  Btdferd,  edges  UNCUT,  prgbably  I ki  finest  copy  tnewn. 

Prinltd  by  W.  S.  fer  Jghn  Snitlkuiickt,  and  are  lo  be  sold  el  his  SA^ 
in  Saint  DuHJtaii's  Churehyatd  in  Fleet  Street,  nnder  the  Diaa.  n.d. 
*,*  This   undated  edition  is  sssigned  lo  the  year  1607,  on  the  excellent 
authorily  of  the  Stationen'  Registers.     The  editions  of  1604  and  1605 
being  identical,  this,  though    nominally  the  third,  is,   for  ali  crttiol 
purposes,  the  s/eonj  edition  of  the  genuine  play. 
Shakespeare  (William)  Tragedy  of  Hamlet  Prince  of  DeDmarke,  newly  imprinled 
and  enlarged  to  almost  as  much  agaioc  as  it  was,  according  to  the  me 
and  perfect  coppy. 
maroteB,  gilt  edges,  by  Bed/erd. 

At  London,  Printed  for  Jehn  Smetkwicke,  and  an  la  be  sold  at  his 

ihoppe  in  Saint  Dunstan'i  Churchyard  in  Fleftslreet,  wndtr  Ikt 

Diall.  16)  I. 

",•  A  perfect  genuine  copy,  with  the  original  fly-leaf.     An  edition  dated 

1609  a  mentioned  in  some  lisls,  but  no  copy  is  known.     The  present, 

of  which  no  copy  has  appeared  for  sale  for  many  years,  is  in  all  proba- 

bilily  the  next  edilion  after  the  preceding  article. 

The  singular  variations  between  the  first  quarto  and  the  second 
have  always  seemed  to  show  convincingly  how  the  text  was  obtained. 
Polonius  is  there  called  Corambis;  Reynaldo  Montano  ;  and  there 
are  many  speeches  in  which  the  subject  of  the  incident  is  treated 
in  the  same  fashion  but  the  words  are  quite  different. 

So  it  seems  certain  that  this  copy  was,  as  it  were,  picked  up  from 
hearsay,  or  from  the  actors,  altered  and  made  effective  according  to 
their  lights  in  default  of  written  copies.  It  has  been  suggested, 
indeed,  by  Mr.  Aldis  Wright  and  Mr.  Halliwell,  that  they  were  taken 
from  a  vulgar  stock  play  on  the  same  subject  which  is  known  to  have 
been  often  acted  before  Shakespeare  look  it  up.  But  it  is  not  likely 
that  Shakespeare  would  have  condescended  to  borrow  the  literal 
handling  of  a  passage  from  such  a  source. 

Even  so  late  as  the  days  of  the  old  Victoria  Theatre,  the  actors 
often  performed  a  play  with  little  more  to  guide  them  than  notes 
of  the  situations  and  topics,  filling  in  the  dialogue  from  their  own 
invention.  For  these  variations  and  corruptions  the  author  himself 
is  not  accountable,  as  he  did  not  authorise  the  publication,  or  thejr 
were  published  in  spite  of  him. 

Every  one  of  these  editions  of  Hamlet  is  of  a  rarity  that  seems 
extraordinary,  considering  the  period  and  the  abundance  of  other 
books  of  the  same  era.    Of  the  first  edition,  that  of  1603,  there 


» 


IK  two  copies  Itnown.  Of  that  of  1 604  there  are  only  ffinti  copies  : 
one  in  the  Duke  of  Devonshire's,  one  in  Mr.  Huth's,  and  one  in  the 
Howe  colleciions.  Of  that  of  1605  there  is  only  the  perfect  copy, 
irtiich  is  the  Capell  collection.  There  is  another  in  the  British 
Museum,  but  it  wants  the  last  leaf.  £ut  now  for  the  little  romance 
ofthe  first  quarto  of  1603.  DoM'n  lo  fifty  years  ago  it  was  un- 
bown,  but  in  the  year  1825  Messrs.  Payne  and  Foss,  eminent 
bibliopolists  in  Pall  Mall,  brought  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  a  little 
volume  containing  some  rare  and  valuable  old  plays,  by  Green  and 
oihers,  dated,  before  the  year  1600,  and  among  them,  mirabik  dktu, 
nailed  this  precious  little  quarto  Hamlet  of  1603.  True,  the  last 
!taf  was  gone,  and  no  one  knew  or  was  likely  lo  know  how  the  piece 
ended  This,  for  the  reasons  given  above,  was  a  more  important 
find.  For  one  hundred  pounds  it  became  the  duke's  property,  and 
»asadiied  to  his  Kemble  Plays  in  Piccadilly.  The  duke  immediately 
ordered  a  reprint  to  be  made,  and  as  in  evidence  of  the  hopelessness 
ofdoing  a  reprint  that  shall  be  accurate,  Mr.  Collier  declares  that,  for 
»  Bonder,  he  could  only  find  two  letters  wrong,  and  one  stop  ! 
Thus,  with  the  most  argus-eycd  and  vigilant  corrector,  blunders 
»ill  escape,  and  the  Upcotl  reprint  of  the  first  folio  is  said  to  be  so 
full  of  blunders  as  to  be  worthless. 

The  noble  amateur  might  be  justly  proud  of  his  "unique," 
ilispbyed,  no  doubt,  with  a  pardonable  elation  to  the  curious.  Others 
wighl  have  their  folios  better  or  worse  in  condition,  but  the  unique 
Hamlet,  species  and  genus  together,  quite  shamed  the  National 
IJbtaty.  Mr.  Halliwell  Philips  applied  to  "fac-simile"  it  for  his 
grand  folio  subscription  Shakespeare  ;  but  this  was  refused, 
possibly  under  the  Collier  influence,  which  then  had  the  ducal  ear. 
•here  might  have  been  suflicient  grounds.  But,  howeverthat  might  be, 
Nemesis  came  speedily.  The  Duke  was  to  enjoy  his  superiority 
™' thirty  years  in  all  The  refusal  was  in  1853;  and  in  1855,  an 
^glish  student  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  had  brought  with 
mm  a  few  old  pamphlets  as  "a  memento"  of  his  old  home. 
"*  took  some  of  them  to  a  DubHn  bookseller,  living  in 
^^lon  Street,  named  Rooney,  Rooney,  it  was  said,  "  gave  a 
'''ing  for  the  lot" — this  is  rumour,  but  he  does  not  directly 
'  us  what  he  gave.  On  looking  over  his  purchase,  he  saw 
^e  was  a  copy  of  Hamlet,  and  he  tells  us  that  seeing  there 
character  called  Corambis  and  not  Polonius,  he  knew  at  once 
.  *as  the  same  edition  as  ihe  duke's  unique.  Unfortunately,  the 
_*t  leaf  was  missing — the  title,  in  short.  Now  this,  no  doubt, 
ipted  the  first  step  taken  by  Rooney,  which  was  the  sensibh 


1 


194  ^^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

one  of  applying  lo  the  duke  himselfl  The  Rooney  last  Xcsi 
would  have  supplied  the  want  in  his  copy,  he  might  have  destrojred 
or  preserved  the  rest,  and  he  would  remain  the  owner  of  the  unique 
one  now  made  perfect,  Bui  he,  unluckily,  took  no  notice  of  the  com- 
munication,  which  he  no  doubt  bitterly  regretted.  The  next  stq) 
was  to  apply  to  the  eminent  Shakespearean  Mr.  Halliwell,  who  at 
first  doubted,  but  was  convinced,  we  are  told,  by  some  quoted 
readings,  though,  considering  there  was  a  reprint,  this  was  no  argument 
He  then  offered  fifty  guineas,  but  a  hundred  was  asked,  which  '^  cooM 
be  got  from  the  Museum."  Mr.  Halliwell  declined  to  make  any 
advance,  adding,  in  a  needless  spirit,  "  that  he  might  whistle  "  for  his 
hundred  from  the  Museum,  on  which  Rooney  repaired  to  London, 
bringing  with  him  the  treasure.  He  saw  the  officers  of  the  Museum, 
who  treated  him  de  haut  en  bjs,  sneering  at  its  "  cut-down  "  look, 
finally  telling  him  if  he  liked  to  leave  it  for  some  indefinite  time  they 
would  see  about  it.  This  he  declined  Again  he  offered  it  to  Mr. 
Halliwell,  who  declined  to  go  beyond  the  fifty.  Taking  it  to  Mr. 
Boone,  a  well-known  bookseller,  he  sold  it  to  him  for  jCjo] 
and  Mr.  Boone  promptly  sold  it  to  Mr.  Halliwell  for  ^i  60! 

This  sibylliue  system  is  more  common  than  is  supposed  in  book- 
buying  ;  what  is  too  dear  when  the  book  is  cheap,  becoming  cheap 
when  the  price  is  raised.  Again  too  it  is  the  case  of  the  belle — 
taken  easily  when  there  are  no  competitors,  but  sought  with  ardour 
when  she  is  in  demand. 

It  is  significant  that  during  this  discussion  Mr.  Payne  Collier 
declared  that  some  ten  or  twelve  years  before  he  had  "a  large  portion" 
of  a  copy  of  this  ver)'  edition  put  into  his  hands,  mysteriously  formed 
of  "fly  leaves  and  linings  of  bindings."  Strange  to  say,  he  refused  to 
buy  it  for  the  modest  price  of  ;^io,  as  he  had  the  use  of  the  duke's 
copy,  and  there  was  moreover  a  rei)rint.  This  was  but  one  of  the 
many  curious  discoveries  of  this  strange  being,  whose  "  Corrector's 
Folio"  makes  one  of  the  marvels  of  Shakespearean  literature.  It  would 
be  affectation  to  conceal  the  suspicion  somehow  attached  to  his  many 
appropriate  discoveries.  Even  in  the  catalogue  of  his  book  sale,  we 
find  a  copy  of  the  *•  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  1607,"  with  the  following 
curious  contemporary  MS.  note  on  the  first  leaf  (but  unfortunately  a 
portion  cropped  by  the  binder),  "  ^  do*]  played  by  the  author"  a  con- 
tribution  to  his  little-known  biography.  How  tantalising  too  that  the 
binder  should  have  "  cropped "  away  perhaps  the  most  interesting 
details! 

The  story  of  the  "Correctors  Folio"  is  curious.  In  1847  Mr. 
Collier  bought  for  30J.  from  a  second-hand  bookseller  a  second  folioj 


Shakespeare  Folios  and  Qitartos. 

muchcropped  and  greasy,  in  which  he  discovered  innumerable  marginal 
aiientions  in  ink.  By  laborious  investigations  he  traced  it  to  the 
fimily  of  Gray  at  Upton  Court,  where  one  Perkins,  who  may  have 
been  connected  with  the  stage,  was  living  a  few  years  after  ihe  date 
on  ihe  folio.  The  duke  bought  this  interesting  volume,  which  was 
duiypubUshed  with  all  its  alterations — which,  it  must  be  said,  are  of 
llie  most  arbitrary  and  elaborate  kind.  But  privately  the  ingenious 
officials  of  Ihe  British  Museum  were  allowed  to  inspect  it,  and  bring- 
ing iheir  critical  sagacity  to  bear,  and  by  the  aid  of  magnifying  glasses, 
discovered  that  the  alterations  had  been  first  written  in  pencil  in  a 
modem  hand,  and  then  written  over  in  an  antique  one.  A  chemist  also 
applied  tests  to  the  "  ink,"  which  proved  to  be  paint  or  water  colour, 
of  course  for  the  purpose  of  simulating  the  old  tint  of  the  ink.  There 
MS  a  vast  deal  of  discussion  on  the  subject,  but  the  authority  of  the 
"Corrector's  FoHo  "  was  certainly  impaired  if  not  destroyed.  It  must 
be  owned  the  attempt  was  admirably  carried  out,  and  from  the  fac- 
similes of  the  alterations  it  can  be  seen  how  excellently  the  old  hand- 
■riling  was  imitated.  -Vs  I  write,  the  Syston  Park  First  Folio  is 
being  sold,  which  claims  to  be  "  the  largest  and  finest  copy  known." 
For  it  is  a  quarter  of  an  inch  taller  than  the  Daniel  copy.  Furtlier, 
ihe  leaves  of  the  top  are  rough,  and  have,  therefore,  been  "  uncut  " 
by  the  binder.   So  minutely  appraised  has  been  this  precious  volume. 

PERCV    FITZGERALD. 


SCIENCE    NOTES. 


Our  Subterranean  Metropolitan  Reserv 


ANYBODY— (not  a  shareholder  in  the  existing  Water  Com- 
panies)— who  will  take  the  trouble  to  study  the  geology  of  the 
"London  Basin"  can  have  no  difficulty  in  understanding  tliat  wc 
iiave  a  reservoir  of  wholesome  filtered  water  under  our  feet,  the  capa- 
city of  which  we  Jiave  fair  reason  to  believe  is  abundantly  sufficient 
to  supply  all  the  wants  of  the  Metropolis,  provided  it  be  tapped  and 
pumped  in  a  proper  manner. 

The  probable  reply  to  this  will  be  that  a  boring  for  a  well  was 
made  at  Meux's  brewery,  that  other  similar  borings  have  been  made  in 
other  places,  and  these  have  failed  to  supply  more  than  a  very  small 
quantity  of  water. 

A  little  reflection  on  the  conditions  of  the  problem  will  show  that 
such  borings  are  simply  ridiculous  as  a  means  of  obtaining  supplies 
from  the  chalk,  or  even  for  ascertaining  their  existence. 

The  London  basin  is  a  great  hollow  or  depression  in  the  challi, 
dipping  far  below  the  sea  level,  which  basin  (or  trough,  more  property 
speaking)  was  formerly  an  estuary  in  which  was  deposited,  first  a  bed 
of  plastic  clay  and  sands,  then  the  much  greater  bed  of  clay  that 
bears  the  name  of  London  clay.  In  certain  hollows  of  the  London 
clay,  subsequently  excavated  by  the  ancient  Thames,  are  deposits  of 
grave],  and  topping  some  of  the  highest  parts  of  the  London  clay  are 
marine  sands.  These  gravels  and  sands,  however,  are  so  local  and 
limited  as  to  have  but  little  importance  in  reference  to  the  question 
I  am  discussing. 

The  submarine  depths  of  the  great  chalk  trough  underlie  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  great  Metropolis  and  its  Middlesex  suburbs,  though 
it  crops  out  on  the  surface  at  some  of  the  transpontine  suburbs. 

The  northern  outcrops  are  some  miles  away,  but  all  of  these 
chalk  Downs,  whether  north,  south,  east,  or  west,  are  porous,  and  the 
rain  that  falls  upon  them  sinks  down  into  the  chalk,  always  tending 
lower  and  lower.  Some  of  it  breaks  out  on  the  seashore  or  into 
river  valleys,  or  rivulets  flowing  towards  the  sea,  but  that  which  gets 
below  sea-level  must,  of  necessity,  remain  and  form  an  undei^round   - 


Science  Notes. 

reservoir.  Such  a  resen'oir  is  certainly  under  London.  If  the 
London  clay,  &c.,  were  removed,  the  chalk  surface  of  the  I^ndon 
lusin  exposed,  and  its  outlet  to  the  sea  dammed  up,  a  lake  of  pel- 
lucid filtered  water  would  fill  the  basin,  rising  nearly  to  the  level  of 
lis  source  on  the  Downs.  Such  rising  is  now  prevented  by  the  imper- 
iiiubility  of  the  clay,  and  the  outlet  cutting  formed  by  the  lower 
TlraiES  Valley.  But  all  below  sea-level  {i.e.  Thames  level)  remains ; 
the  dialk  there  is  saturated  with  water  constituting  an  available  and 
continually  self-renewing  supply,  extending  beneath  the  whole  of 
London. 

But  how  can  we  tap  this  reservoir  ?  It  is  evident,  from  the  nature 
of  the  chalk,  that  the  water  filters  through  it  by  a  slow  but  con- 
timious  ooiing,  and  therefore  a  mere  bore-hole,  like  that  at  Meux's 
brewery,  can  only  catch  the  oozing  from  the  trivial  surface  of  its  own 
•alls.  If  a  large  well,  like  a  coal  pit,  ten  or  twelve  feet  diameter,  were 
Bide,  a  proportionally  greater  quantity  of  water  would  ooze  through. 
But  even  this  would  be  very  small  compared  with  the  requirements, 
then,  to  be  tortured,  like  Tantalus,  with  the  water  close  to 
our  lips,  yet  ever  evading  out  thirsty  eflbrts  to  obtain  it  ? 

This  question  has  been  answered  at  Brighton,  where  it  has  been 
practically  demonstrated  that  there  are  fissures  in  the  chalk,  and  that 
'lie  witer  filters  through  the  walls  of  these  fissures,  filhng  them  at 
*  rate  corresponding  to  the  area  of  their  walls.  Therefore,  if  the 
*cwery  boring  had  happened  to  strike  one  of  the  fissures,  it  might 
^ve  received  all  the  oo/ing  out  from  a  square  mile  of  fissure- 
**ll,  instead  of  its  own  few  square  inches  of  wall  The  exceptional 
'Uccess  of  some  chalk  wells  may  be  thus  explained. 

The  probability  of  thus  hitting  an  unknown  fissure  is  very  remote, 
"''c  shooting  blind-folded  at  a  bull's-eye. 

But  there  is  another  mode  of  hitting  these  natural  tappings, 


th, 


'  driving  of  tunnels  through  the  chalk  in  a  horizontal— or  nearly 


,  **riiontai— direction.     These  are  likely  to  cross  a  fissure  and  swallow 

Present   contents  and  all  it  can  receive  thereafter.     When  the 

""^Vailing  direction  of  the  fissures  once  becomes  known,  the  tapping 

3ny  number  is  but  a  simple  problem.     All  that  is  required  is  to 

*~*^«  the  tunnels  oc  adits  in  a  direction  at  right  angles  to  the  prc- 

^'ling  course  of  the  fissures,  when  all  those  lying  within  the  length 

S\ich  drift  must  be  cut  across. 

Such  direction  has  been  ascertained,  such  drifts  have  been  made 

^   the  supply  of  Brighton,  and  with  such  success  that  five-and-a-half 

*llions  of  gallons  are  daily  raised,  which  is  two  millions  more  llian 

^    Town  can  use  i  the  surplus  is  therefore  thrown  into  the 


J 


198  The  Gentlemafis  Magazine. 

No  filtering  is  required  for  this  water ;  it  is  already  filtered 
incomparably  better  than  by  any  artificial  means. 

I  have  observed  lately,  when  visiting  Brighton,  that  the  water 
when  newly  drawn  from  the  pipes  by  which  it  is  supplied  to  the  houses 
is  curiously  efrer\'escent.  It  appears  quite  milky  at  first  This  is 
due  to  minute  bubbles  ;  they  soon  rise  to  the  surface  and  leave  it 
clear.  They  appear  to  be  bubbles  of  air  mixed  with  a  little  carbonic 
acid,  but  I  have  not  had  an  opportunity  of  collecting  and  testing 
them  with  proper  reagents. 

They  are  there  because  the  water  is  received  in  the  houses  directly 
from  the  reser\oirs  without  any  of  those  pestiferous  London  abomina- 
tions—the domestic  water-butts  and  water-tanks.  The  Brighton 
domestic  supply  is  continuous  and  unlimited ;  the  reservoirs  are 
covered,  and  the  subterranean  water  never  sees  daylight  till  it  flows 
from  the  household  tap.  It  brings  with  it  some  of  the  air  condensed 
within  it  by  the  pressure  to  which  it  has  been  subjected,  but  can 
bring  no  germs  or  other  contamination  of  any  kind  received  from  the 
air  above,  or  sewers  below,  or  the  soil  between. 

The  chalk  through  which  the  Goldstone  tunnel  is  cut  for  the 
Brighton  supply  is  continuous  with  that  which  underlies  the  whole  of 
Ix^ndon,  the  only  difference  being  that  the  London  chalk  is  lower 
down,  therefore  more  inexhaustibly  supplied  with  water  that  has  been 
subject  to  still  deeper  filtration.  With  these  facts  before  us  the 
continuance  of  our  present  supply  from  open  sewers  like  the  Thames, 
the  Lea,  or  the  New  River,  is  doomed,  in  spite  of  all  the  special 
pleading  and  the  other  efforts  of  the  vested  interests  which  alone 
maintain  it. 

The  Battery  of  the  Future. 

THIS  note  is  ostentatiously  prophetic.  The  gentle  reader  will 
doubtless  quote  in  reply:  "  Never  prophesy  unless  you  know." 
But  I  do  know,  and,  therefore,  am  reckless  in  prophecy.  I  have 
known  it  ever  since  1846,  when  engaged  in  supplying  battery  power 
for  "  King's  Electric  Light";  but  though  I  knew  it  I  could  not  do  it. 

Do  what  ?  Make  a  voltaic  battery,  with  carbon,  or  hydro-carbon, 
as  the  active  element  instead  of  zinc.  The  beginnings  of  this  great 
achievement,  like  the  original  beginning  of  the  production  of  dynamic 
electricity,  has  been  made  in  Italy  by  countrymen  of  Galvani  and 
Volta. 

The  reason  why  electric  lighting  (except  for  sensational  or  ex- 
ceptional purposes)  is  still  practically  a  failure  is  simply  owing  to  its 


Science  Notes. 

peat  cost ;  this  great  cost  is  tiue  to  the  roundabout  process  at  present 
adopted  wherever  tij-namo  engines  are  used.  Coal  is  burned  in  order 
to  produce  mechanical  power,  in  doing  which  only  a  fraction  of  its 
mural  energy  is  made  available ;  then  the  mechanical  energy  is  con- 
med  into  electric  energy  at  another  and  similar  sacrifice,  besides 
lunherloss  in  transmission.  At  last  we  obtain  less  than  lo  per  cent, 
of  the  available  power  with  a  loss  of  the  other  90  or  more. 

tt'ith  a  voltaic  battery  as  the  primary  source,  the  loss  is  far  less. 
1  miglit  say  that,  under  favourable  conditions,  we  may  thus  avail 
purselves  of  90  per  cent.,  and  only  lose  10,  instead  of  losing  90  and 
using  10. 

The  reason  why  we  do  not  use  the  voltaic  battery  is  that  the  fuel 
is  a  metal — usually  zinc^and  zinc  is  far  more  costly  than  coal, 
ireight  for  weight  Besides  this,  its  store  of  potential  energy,  weight 
for  weight,  is  far  less^about  one-sixth  in  round  numbers.  From 
this  will  be  understood  the  enormous  advantage  we  should  gain  by 
aaing  coal,  instead  of  zinc,  as  tiie  oxidizing  ur  active  element  in  a 
Voltaic  battery. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Carbon  and  hydro-carbons  form  a  countless 
multitude  of  compounds,  a  great  many  of  which  are  more  or  less 
Useful;  and  thus  our  ideal  battery  of  the  future  may  be  not  only  a 
cheap  source  of  light  and  mechanical  power,  but  it  may  be  made 
self-supporting,  or  nearly  so,  by  the  value  of  the  chemical  products 
WPfits  own  action. 

Br  The  battery,  or  rather  batteries,  to  which  I  have  alluded  as  making 
■^^^  banning  of  this  great  development  of  electrical  engineering  are 
'■esults  of  the  experimental  researclies  of  A.  Bartoli  and  G.  Papasogli. 
^'Tiey  have  already  constructed  a  cell  in  which  gas  carbon  or  charcoal 
**  Oxidized,  and  its  oxidation  produces  mellic  acid  and  other  benzene- 
'boxyllic  acids;  the  electro-motive  force  of  this  cell  varied  from  04 
'S  of  a  "Daniel"  cell.  This  was  obtained  by  using  a  solution  of 
iutn  hypochlorite  {i.e.  a  compound  corresponding  to  the  ordinary 
ifectant  called  "chloride  of  lime,"  but  with  soda  in  the  place  of 
'e  lime)  and  electrodes  of  platinum  or  gold  opposing  the  carbon. 
They  have  made  such  a  battery,  a  single  cell  of  which  remained 
''*  action  for  several  months,  and  sufficiently  powerful  for  working 
electric  bells. 

The  cells  of  Volta's  "  couronne  des  tasses  "  had  far  less  power 
"lan  this,  and  the  same  was  the  case  with  the  separate  cells  of  ihe 
"^^tery  of  the  Royal  Institution  with  which  Davy  separated  the 
""^tals  of  the  alkalis  and  the  earths. 
-      Another  promising  feature  of  this  beginning  is  that  during  the 


1 


200  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

past  three  years,  or  thereabouts,  Signori  Bartoli  and  Papasogli  ha?e 
been  gradually  progressing,  using  a  variety  of  solutions  with  vaiying 
effects.    A  vast  field  of  further  research  is  evidently  opened. 

Others  are  now  at  work  in  the  same  direction.  D.  Tomassi  and 
Radiguet  have  a  paper  in  the  Compte  Rendus  describing  a  batteiy 
of  which  the  elements  are  carbon,  lead  peroxide,  and  common  salt, 
all  very  cheap  materials,  and  suggesting  the  direction  in  which  to 
look  for  substitutes  for  the  gold  and  platinum  plates  of  Bartoli  and 
Papasogli. 

"  Heat  considered  as  a  Mode  of  Motion." 

I  FIND  that  this  title  of  Dr.  Tyndall's  book,  and  his  historical 
remarks,  have  led  many  students  to  form  erroneous  notions  on 
the  history  of  the  subject.  In  the  preface  to  the  first  edition  he  says: 
**To  the  scientific  public  the  names  of  the  builders  of  this  new 
philosophy  arc  already  familiar.  As  experimental  contributon, 
Rumford,  Davy,  I'araday,  and  Joule  stand  prominently  forward.  As 
theoretic  writers  (placing  them  alphabetically),  we  have  Clausius, 
Helmholz,  KircholT,  Mayer,  Rankine,  Thompson."  He  also  mentions 
Regnault,  Seguin,  and  Grove. 

From  the  context  I  infer  that  by  the  "  new  philosophy  "  he  prob- 
ably means  that  which  Grove  has  broadly  designated  "  The  Cor- 
relation  of  Forces "  ;  but  the  majority  of  readers  suppose  that 
Tyndall  is  describing  as  a  new  philosophy  the  idea  that  heat  is  a 
mode  of  motion,  not  the  "  imponderable "  substance,  the  caloric, 
which  Rumford  and  Davy  experimentally  controverted. 

The  fact  is,  that  this  view  of  heat  as  a  mode  of  motion  is  but  a 
revival  of  the  conception  of  Descartes,  Bacon,  Boyle,  and  Newton. 
In  the  article  " Heat "  in  the  "Complete  Dictionary  of  Arts  and 
Sciences,"  by  the  Rev.  Temple  Henry  Croker,  Dr.  Thomas  Williams, 
and  Samuel  Clark  (1764),  Dr.  Williams  says,  "Heat  in  the  body 
that  communicates  it  is  only  motion  ;  in  the  mind,  a  particular  dis- 
position of  the  soul."  "  The  Cartesians,"  he  says,  "  assert  heat  to 
consist  in  a  certain  motion  of  the  insensible  particles  of  the  body, 
like  that  whereby  all  the  parts  of  the  human  body  are  agitated  by  the 
motion  of  the  heart  and  blood." 

Bacon,  in  the  treatise  "  De  Forma  Calidi,"  concludes  from  a 
number  of  facts  "  that  heat  in  bodies  is  no  other  than  motion,  so 
and  so  circumstanced ;  so  that  to  produce  heat  in  a  body,  nothing  is 
required  but  to  excite  a  certain  motion  in  the  parts  thereof" 

Boyle  contends  for  the  same,  specifying  as  evidence  the  heating 


Science  Notes.  201 

of  a  piece  of  iron  by  continual  hammering,  ''  the  forcible  motion  of 
the  hammer  impressing  a  vehement  and  variously  determined  agita- 
tion  on  the  small  parts  of  the  iron,  which,  being  a  cold  body  before, 
grows,  by  that  superinduced  commotion  of  its  small  parts,  hot"  He 
further  adduces  the  case  of  driving  a  nail  into  wood.  So  long  as 
the  nail  advances  but  little  heat  is  produced,  ''  but  when  it  is  once 
driven  to  the  head,  a  few  strokes  suffice  to  give  it  a  considerable  heat ; 
for  while,  at  every  blow  of  the  hammer,  the  nail  enters  further  into 
the  wood,  the  motion  produced  is  chiefly  progressive,  and  is  of  the 
whole  tending  one  way  ;  but  when  that  motion  ceases,  the  impulse 
given  by  the  stroke  being  unable  to  drive  the  nail  further  on,  or 
break  it,  must  be  spent  in  making  a  various,  vehement,  and  intestine 
commotion  of  the  parts  among  themselves,  wherein  the  nature  of 
heat  consists.'' 

Dr.  Williams  very  distinctly  anticipates  the  modern  explanation 
of  the  difference  between  light  and  heat,  i,t,  between  luminous  and 
obscure  radiations. 

"  Fire,"  he  says,  "  differs  from  heat  only  in  this,  that  heat  is  a 
motion  of  the  particles  of  a  body  with  a  lesser  degree  of  velocity ; 
and  fire,  a  motion  with  a  greater  degree  of  velocity,  viz.  such  as  is 
sufficient  to  make  the  particles  shine.'' 

By  "  fire  "  he  means  luminous  radiation,  as  the  following  shows  : 
"  There  seems  to  be  no  other  difference  between  fire  and  flame  than 
this  :  that  fire  consists  in  a  glowing  degree  of  velocity  in  the  parts  of 
a  body,  while  yet  subsisting  together  in  the  mass  ;  but  flame  is  the 
same  degree  of  velocity  in  the  particles  dissipated  and  flying  off  in 
vapour ;  or,  to  use  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  expression,  flame  is  nothing 
else  but  a  red-hot  vapour." 

The  Origin  of  the  Moon's  Irregularities. 

AVERY  interesting  address  on  the  subject  of  "  Pending  Pro- 
blems of  Astronomy  "  was  delivered  by  Professor  Charles  A. 
Young  to  the  American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science 
on  September  5  last.  Among  other  subjects  was  that  of  the  mis- 
behaviour of  the  moon  in  not  proceeding  exactly  as  it  should,  accord- 
ing to  the  lunar  theor}'.  As  Professor  Young  says,  "  The  motions  of 
the  moon  have  been  very  carefully  investigated,  both  theoretically 
and  observationally ;  and  in  spite  of  everything,  there  remain  discre- 
pancies which  defy  explanation.  We  are  compelled  to  admit  one  of 
thzee  things  :  either  the  lunar  theory  is  in  some  degree  mathematic- 
ally incomplete,  and  fails  to  represent  accurately  the  gravitational 

VOL,  CCLV/J7.     no.  ISSO.  \ 


302  The  GentUmatts  Magazine. 

action  of  the  earth  and  sun  and  other  known  heavenly  bodies,  upoi 
her  movements  ;  or  some  unknown  force  other  than  the  gravitatioul 
attractions  of  these  bodies  is  operating  in  the  case ;  or  else,  finaDj, 
the  earth's  rotational  motion  is  more  or  less  irregular,  and  so  affecti 
the  time-reckoning  and  confounds  prediction." 

I  read  through  his  further  examination  of  these  three  alternatively 
in  which  he  confesses  his  failure  to  obtain  any  solution  of  the  riddle^ 
but  do  not  find  that  he  has  at  all  considered  a  source  of  disturbance 
which  to  me  appears  most  obvious. 

In  my  essay  on  "  The  Fuel  of  the  Sun,"  written  above  sixteen 
years  ago,  I  pointed  out  how  those  ever-active  upheavals  of  the 
outer  layer  of  solar  matter —the  solar  prominences — must  eject 
vast  quantities  of  the  metallic  vapours,  of  which  the  spectroscope 
tells  us  this  layer  is  comi)oscci,  and  that  when  thus  ejected  into  the 
cooler  regions  beyond  the  sun  they  must  become  condensed  u 
metallic  hail,  and  that  these  never-ceasing  but  very  variable  p^oje^ 
tions  of  such  material  sunkicntly  account  for  the  phenomena  of  the 
corona  and  the  zodiacal  light,  as  well  as  the  occasional  fall  of  lumpi 
of  solar  matter  (meteoric  iron)  ui)on  the  earth. 

This  was  a  bold  speculation  at  the  time,  fairly  open  to  critictfli 
as  too  bold  ;  but  all  that  has  been  added  to  our  positive  knot- 
ledge  since  it  was  written  is  confirmatory. 

We  now  know  that  the  velocity  of  ejection  of  the  matter  of  the 
prominences  is  in  many  cases  sufficient  to  fling  solar  material  beyond 
the  orbit  of  the  earth,  and  ordinarily  far  beyond  the  then  knofWA 
limits  of  the  corona. 

We  now  know  (especially  by  the  recent  American  observatioDi 
of  the  eclipse  of  July  1878)  that  the  corona,  instead  of  exteodiiC 
merely  two  or  three  hundred   thousand   miles  beyond  the  solir 
surface  (as  was  supposed  when  I  wrote),  is,  as  I  predicted,  actuaDf 
continuous  with  the  zodiacal  light.     Professor  Langley  saw  it  wifc 
the  naked  eye  extending  in  a  continuous  stream  to  a  distance  df 
twelve  diameters  of  the  sun,  and  adds:  "The  twelve  diameter 
through  which  I  traced  it  under  these  circumstances  I  feel  confidence 
in  saying  were  but  a  portion  of  its  extent."     The  other  independent 
observations  made  at  other  less   favourable  stations  confirm  thi»- 
Twelve  solar  diameters  amount  to  more  than  ten  millions  of  mili 
and  this  extension  quite  reaches  the  visible  base  of  the  zodiacal  ligh*! 

The  mass  of  matter  thus  projected  must  be  very  great,  quit 
suflicient  to  account  for  the  mysterious  perturbations  of  the  orbit 
Mercury  which  Leverrier  supposed  to  be  produced  by  an  intra-M' 
curial  planet,  which  has  been  named  "  Vulcan,"  but  has  not 


Not  only  is  the  quantity  of  matter  sufficient  to  do  something,  but 
the  irregularity  of  its  distribution  is  svich  as  sliould  produce  the 
irregularities  of  disturbance  displayed  by  the  moon. 

The  width  of  the  outstream  of  twelve  diameters  in  length  was 
(as  shown  in  Langley's  drawing)  about  one  million  of  miles.  The 
out-stream  in  the  opposite  direction  was  but  of  half  the  length,  and 
soniewhat  wider  and  spreading.  In  the  other  directions  the  length 
of  extension  was  but  two  or  three  millions  of  miles.  Similar  and 
strictly  corresponding  variations  are  displayed  in  drawings  accom- 
panying the  other  reports.  I  should  add  that  Langley's  observations 
Were  made  on  Pike's  Peak  of  the  Colorado  Mountains,  at  an  elevation 
of  14,000  feet  "  through  the  peculiarly  dry  air  of  Colorado." 

That  Professor  Young,  who  has  done  so  miicli  in  solar  observa- 
tions, especially  in  demonstrating  the  enormous  velocity  and  magni- 
tude of  these  solar  ejections,  should  so  entirely  overlook  this  enormous 
quantity  of  matter  extending  so  irregularly  about  the  sun,  and  of  course 
exiling  its  gravitation  on  Mercury,  Venus,  tiie  Earth,  and  the  Moon, 
i»  very  curious,  and  I  venture  to  predict  that  he  and  all  the  other 
astroaoraers  who,  like  our  ex-Astronomer  Royal,  are  struggling  so 
profoundly  with  the  lunar  theory,  will  continue  to  be  baffled  until 
Ihey  do  take  it  into  account. 

Professor  Young's  blindness  to  this  very  effective  source  of  dis- 
turbance comes  forth  still  more  strikingly  when,  in  the  course  of  the 
same  address,  he  stru^les  with  the  problem  of  the  disturbance  of 
Mercury,  and  says  that  "  It  has  been  surmised  that  the  cause  may  be 
something  in  the  distribution  of  matter  within  the  solar  globe,  or  some 
vajiation  in  gravitation  from  the  exact  law  of  the  inverse  square,  or 
sorae  supplementary  electric  or  magnetic  action  of  the  sun,  or  some 
special  effect  of  the  solar  radiation,  sensible  on  account  of  the  planet's 
proximity,  or  something  peculiar  to  the  region  in  which  the  planet 
»»oves ;  but  thus  far  no  satisfactory  explanation  has  been  estab- 
lished." 

W.    MATTIEU  WILLIAMS, 


204  The  GentUmarCs  Magaziiu. 


TABLE    TALK. 

Expansion  of  London. 

AS  yet  no  idea  of  the  probable  expansion  of  London  to  be  wit- 
nessed in  the  next  score  years,  seems  to  dawn  upon  tfaoiC 
who  take  charge  of  our  internal  government,  and  the  necessary 
enlargements  and  repairs  arc  made  without  the  slightest  reference 
to  our  coming  needs.  Again  and  again,  when  the  one  side  of  a 
street  is  pulled  down,  as  in  the  case  of  Gray's  Inn  Lane,  a  few  mofe 
yards  are  added  to  meet  present  necessities,  and  residents  are 
encouraged  to  put  up  more  or  less  costly  buildings  on  each  side 
as  though  the  ultimate  requirements  of  London  were  met.  By  a 
constant  experience  I  know  tliat  our  main  thoroughfiues  are  now 
overcrowded  and  blocked  to  the  extent  of  being  dangerous.  A 
walk  up  the  Strand  to  a  man  who  has  lost  the  elasticity  of  youth 
and  who  is  in  haste  is  a  task  of  danger.  At  the  present,  when  the 
theatres  close,  the  place  is  a  tlioroughfare  only  in  name.  To  meet 
the  requirements  of  this  century  even,  the  Strand  should  be  as 
wide  through  all  its  length  as  Charing  Cross.  It  should  have — like 
Unter  den  Linden  in  Berlin — two  separate  carriage-ways  for  vehicles 
going  in  different  directions,  and  a  foot- way  between:  if  possible  a 
boulevard  with  trees  and  with  light  foot-bridges  by  which  passengers 
might  avoid  the  traffic.  Let  any  man  disposed  to  scoff  at  this  idea 
compare,  if  he  can,  the  difference  between  the  Strand  of  to-day  and 
that  of  a  score  years  ago,  and  think  what  another  score  years  at  our 
accelerating  rate  of  increase  will  do.  It  is  no  part  of  our  business 
to  look  too  far  ahead  anil  make  provision  for  a  remote  posterity. 
Ixrt  those,  however,  who  arc  aware  of  the  power  of  figures  reckon 
up  our  present  rate  of  progress  and  see  how  long  it  will  take  with  no 
unforeseen  check  to  give  London  a  population  of  twenty  million. 

Paynf.  Collier's  Diary. 

IN  the  interest  of  all  lovers  of  litemture  it  is  to  be  hoped  that 
the  '*  Old  Man's  Diary,"  a  copy  of  which  sold  under  special 
conditions  for  ;^i5o  at  the  recent  sale  of  Collier's  library,  will  be 


TabU  Talk. 


t  yesterday,  ^^\ 


itpublished.  The  recollections  of  a  man  who  died  but  ) 
uid  who  knew  most  of  ihe  celebrities  of  the  beginning  of  the 
Kfltuiy,  who  was  taken  by  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  to  visit  the 
elder  Mathews,  who  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Siddons,  met  Mrs. 
Abingion,  and  heard  Sheridan  speak  in  Parliament,  cannot  be 
Qihcuise  than  entertaining.  It  is  possible,  probable  even,  that  in 
ihe  cue  of  those  who  could  aid  in  no  "discovery,"  and  assist  in 
itic  perpetration  of  no  literary  forgery,  the  recollections  which  are 
presented  may  be  as  trustworthy  as  are  those  of  average  humanity. 
Few  well-informed  readers  who  came  across  my  previous  references 
to  the  inroads  in  the  shape  of  erasures,  interpolations,  and  the  like 
ibjl  have  been  made  in  the  Collections  of  National  documents, 
could  be  unaware  that  Collier  is  the  man  who  was  always  credited 
with  these  commissions.  His  "  History  of  the  Stage,"  admirable  as 
"work  of  industr)-  and  research,  is,  of  course,  useless  to  the  scholar 
»liO  has  no  opportunity  to  test  the  trustworthiness  of  his  assertions 
and  Ihc  genuineness  of  the  documents  he  advances.  In  addition  to 
tfie  eiposure  by  Mr.  N.  E.  S,  A,  Hamilton,  and  Mr.  \Varner's  intro- 
duction to  the  "  Catalogue  of  Manuscripts  and  Monuments  of  AUeyn's 
College  of  God's  Gift  at  Dulwich,"  Mr.  Bullen,  in  the  introduction  to 
liisnew  edition  of  Marlowe,  comes  forward  and  declares  of  a  MS. 
tiallad  concerning  Marlowe,  put  forth  by  Mr.  Collier  and  accepted 
^1  Byce,  that  it  is  a  forgery.  It  is  not  easy  to  forgive  one  who  has 
'Ocurred  such  suspicions  as  attach  to  Collier  of  tamjicring  with 
•bat  should  be  a  sacred  trust.  It  furnishes  no  reason,  however, 
^^C"  tefuung  such  instruction  and  amusement  as  he  can  supply.  A 
^KpoblicalioD  of  his  diary  could  not  be  other  than  a  success. 

How   LONG   OUGHT   A    MaN   TO   SLEEP? 

THE  latest  authority  on  this  vexed  question,  Dr.  Malins,  says 
that  the  proper  amount  of  sleep  to  be  taken  by  a  man  is 

Sht  hours.  So  far  as  regards  city  life  the  estimate  is  probably  cor- 
,  *■  Proverbial  wisdom  does  not  apply  to  modern  conditions  of 
/T^*!  existence.     ''  Five  (hours)  for  a  man,  seven  for  a  woman,  and 

"^^fora  pig,"  says  one  proverbjandasecond,  quoted  by  Mr.  Hazliit 
,.  "^is  English  Proverbs,  declares  that  "  Nature  requires  five  ;  custom 
-.j'^  (  ?  allows)  seven  ;  laziness  takes  nine  ;  and  wickedness  eleven." 
^'^e  conclusions  were,  however,  drawn  from  observation  of  country 
i^'      Physical  fatigue   is   more   easily   overcome    than  intellectual. 

**ich  of  us  when  travelling  in  the  country,  or  abroad,  or  in  any  way 
^  t*J».rated  from  the  ordinary  processes  of  thought  and  anxiety,  has 


not  found  thai  he  could,  without  difficulty,  do  with  a  couple  of  hours 
less  sleep  than  he  was  Id  the  habit  of  taking  ? 

Hen,  however,  who  follow  any  intellectual  pursuit  are  excep- 
tionally fortunate  if  the  processes  of  restoration  occupy  less  than 
seven  hours.  Mote  frequently  they  extend  lo  eight  or  nine  hours. 
Kant,  I  sec  it  stated,  took  never  less  than  seven  hours.  Goethe  owned 
to  requiring  nine.  Soldiers  and  sailors,  on  the  other  hand,  like 
labourers,  do  with  a  mucli  less  quantity.  I  am  afraid  to  say  how  few 
hours  the  Duke  of  Wellington  regarded  as  essential.  A  schoolmaster 
under  whom  at  one  time  I  studied,  a  hard-working  man  at  the  acquisi- 
tion of  languages,  proclaimed  loudly  that  he  never  took  more  than 
five  hours'  sleep.  The  hour  at  which  he  rose  in  tlie  morning  gave 
some  colour  to  this  assertion.  Only  in  after-life  did  I  discover  that 
a  two  hours'  post-prandial  siesta  was  not  included  in  that  allowance. 


J 


L^TicH  Law  in  France.  «^ 

THE  unpunished  crime  of  Mme.  Clovis  Hugues  is  too  recent       .( 
in  date  to  permit  of  the  appearance  of  her  name  in  "  Woraea 
of  the  Day,"'  a  compilation  in  which,  while  doing  justice  to  her  own  . 

sex.  Miss  Frances  Hayes  makes  a  bold  attempt  to  compensate  foe      i 
the  notorious  shortcomings  of  "  Men  of  the  Time."     In  some  futur^=-     j 
edition,  however,  the  name  of  this  saint  of  the  gospel  of  blood  "t^s>  ~    | 
figure.     Enough  has  been  said  in  England  of  the  apotheosis  whicl^^  | 
has  been  accorded  the  wretched  woman   in   France.     The  notion-  ^» 
however,  that  in  France  lynch  law  is  lo  take  the  place  ofresponsibl^^^S^: 
authority  is  so  terrible,  I  shrink  from  the  contemplation  of  its  result^^^^ 
Granting  even,  as  some  of  us  at  times  feel,  that  the  law  is  too  f^rffii         *i 
of  the  criminal,  and  that  there  are  crimes  which  the  slow  foot  ■        "*^ 
Justice,  trammelled  with  precedent  and  bearing  the  burden  of  ovt 
responsibility,  fails  to  overtake.     Before  it  can  be  permissible 
any  circumstances  to  take  the  law  into  our  own  hands  it  is  neces; 
that  the  guilt  should  be  brought  home  to  the  victim.     That  the 
murdered  by  Mme.  Clovis  Hugues  was  not  the  writer  of  the  "  missivi 
by  which  her  existence  was  poisoned  appears  proven.     Most  pro^^— 1 
ably  he  was  an  obscure  agent  of  others,  a  man  on  whom  a  cu    -»• 
gelling  would  have  been  wasted.     The  form  of  lynch  law  accepl^^"* 
in  France  must  not  then  be  confounded  with  that  current  in  soi^:^^* 
provinces  of  America.     A  man  in  the  Western  States  is  caught  re^^^ 
handed  in  a  crime  ;  is,  not  for  the  first  time,  convicted  ;  and  is  l^^s'*! 
in  prison  until  he  can  purchase  his  release  and  recommence  K  -1*4^ 
'  Challo  Si  Windus, 


J 


Table  Talk.  2oy 

career.  The  wild  justice  that  seizes  such  a  man  and  hangs  him  to  a 
tree  placed  across  a  disused  mine  is  human  and  pardonable,  even 
though  scarcely  justifiable.  An  act  of  private  vengeance  such  as  has 
been  committed  by  Mme.  Hugues  stands,  however,  on  a  different 
footing,  and  the  condonation  in  France  of  such  offences  is  perhaps 
the  most  discomforting  sign  of  the  times. 

Little  Japan  in  London. 

FOREIGN  colonies  abound  in  London;  and  districts  like  Spital- 
fields,  Soho,  or  Hatton  Garden  have  taken  their  colouring 
and  character  from  foreign  residents.  To  establish,  however,  close 
to  Hyde  Park,  a  Japanese  village  is  a  novelty.  From  the  kind  of 
disorder  which  attaches  itself  to  Mongolian  colonies  in  Western 
American  cities  this  innovation  will  assumably  be  free,  and  the 
spectacle  afforded  of  Japanese  tradesmen  at  their  work  or  their 
devotions,  and  of  Japanese  women  and  children  in  their  domestic 
avocations,  is  curious,  attractive,  and  instructive.  The  show  is  likely, 
accordingly,  to  become  a  success.  Good  results  are  always  to  be 
expected  from  everything  that  broadens  our  acquaintance  with  the 
people  of  foreign  nations,  and  teaches  us  how  much  we  have  in 
common  with  those  whose  speech,  morals,  habits,  are  most  remote 
from  our  own.  It  is  not  too  much  to  hope  that  the  time  will  ulti- 
mately be  reached  when  we  learn  that  the  Indian  Ocean  is  no  more 
a  barrier  between  man  and  man  than  the  Tweed  or  the  Solway. 
If  meantime  the  residents  whom  we  see  are,  to  a  certain  extent, 
sophisticated,  this  is  to  be  expected.  A  visit  to  Humphrey's  Hall 
is  not  intended  as  a  substitute  for  a  trip  to  Japan,  but  rather  as  an 
incentive  to  it  and  a  preparation  for  it 

Proposed  Purchase  of  Highgate  Woods. 

WITH  pardonable  pride  I  fatness  one  after  another  the  schemes 
advocated  in  Table  Talk  become  matters  of  general  interest, 
and  lead  to  concerted  and  practical  action.  The  expediency,  the 
necessity  even,  of  annexing  to  the  public  possessions  at  Hampstead 
the  adjoining  estate  of  Lord  Mansfield  was  first  publicly  demonstrated 
in  these  pages.  At  the  present  moment  a  society,  the  object  of 
which  is  to  secure  for  the  people  these  and  other  properties  in 
Highgate,  is  in  existence,  and  the  matter  has  been  discussed  in 
Parliament  and  in  the  press.  Opinion  is  unanimously  favourable  to 
the  scheme,  and  the  only  question  raised  is  to  the  souice  ^Vv^tic^\.\\fe 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

purchase-money  has  to  be  derived.  While  I  can  bring  no  charge  of 
lukewarmness  against  those  who  have  discussed  the  project,  I  am 
disappointed  that  an  argument  I  at  first  advanced  has  not  been 
assigned  the  prominence  it  deserves,  With  a  view  to  the  constant 
expansion  of  London,  hiliy  spots  such  as  Highgate  and  Hampstead 
are  of  more  advantage  as  lungs  than  any  other.  Not  because  the 
North  is  worse  provided  with  recreation  grounds  than  the  South  or 
the  West  do  I  urge  the  acquisition  of  this  spot.  It  is  because  next 
to  the  river  way  the  Northern  Heights  are  of  most  importance  for 
ventilating  a  city  so  huge  as  London,  and  to  allow  them  to  be  built 
over  would  be  a  fatal  blunder. 


Sheridan  as  a  Plagiarist. 

ONE  more  proof  how  unscrupulous  in  their  use  of  matter  em- 
ployed by  their  predecessors  are  successful  dramatists  is 
furnished  by  the  Hon.  Leivis  Wingfield  in  a  letter  recently  published 
in  the  A/Afitaum.  To  a  forgotten  novel  called  "  Memoirs  of  Mr. 
Sidney  Biddolph,"  Sheridan,  according  to  Mr.  Wingfield,  is  in- 
debted for  a  portion  of  the  plot  of  the  "School  for  Scandal" — 
that  portion,  viz.,  in  which  Sir  Ohver,  returning  from  India,  puis 
off  the  nabob  and  assumes  the  guise  of  an  applicant  for  charity. 
That  Sheridan  drew  from  this  source  is  probable  enough,  and  that 
his  claim  to  invention  suffers  by  the  discovery  must  be  conceded. 
His  laurels  undergo,  however,  no  serious  blight.  Plots  which  belong 
wholly  to  the  dramatist  are  neither  common  nor,  in  many  cases, 
excellent  Dramatic  perception  and  invention  are  two  widely  different 
things.  We  shall  have  ultimately  to  concede  what  has  been  before 
maintained,  that  the  best  use  of  an  idea  rather  than  the  first  use  of 
it  constitutes  ownership.  Many  as  are  human  passions  and  vices, 
and  indefinite  as  are  the  complications  that  spring  from  them,  it 
seems  as  if  the  subjects  suitable  to  the  purposes  of  the  dramatict 
might,  in  time,  be  exhausted. 

S  URBAN. 


I 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINI 

March  1S85. 
THE   UNFORESEEN. 

Bv  Alice  O'Hanlon. 


"M^ 


A   MYSTERIOUS   LOSS. 

f  Y  Paul,"  observed  Madame  Vandeleur  to  her  husband,  on 
the  day  before  that  which  was  to  see  the  unfortunate 
young  Enghshroan  laid  in  his  last  resting-place.  "  My  Paul,  you 
OMol  set  off  with  that  letter  quite  so  soon  as  you  design.  You 
must  wait  till  at  least  two  days  after  the  burial." 

"  But  for  what  reason,  my  angel  ?  "  demanded  her  husband. 
"For  the  reason  that  I  propose  to  accompany  you,"  was  the 
■sp'r-  "  It  is  my  duty  and  my  desire,  Paul,  to  see  this  Mees  Estcoiirl 
for  myself.  Whatever  arrangements  she  may  wish  to  make  about  the 
Bait  Claude  must  be  made  with  nie,  not  with  thee.  For  although 
"iwirt  wise  enough  in  some  ways,  and  canst  make  a  good  bargain 
for  tfiy  skins  and  timber,  yet,  in  things  that  go  beyond  thy  under- 
^i^nding,  thou  art,  as  ihou  very  well  knowest,  my  beloved,  a  complete 
goose." 

J'aul  scratched  his  head,  not  in  the  least  resentful  of  this  left- 

fiajided  compliment     "But  how  are  you  to  travel?"  he  asked. 

-'id  what,  my  Marie,  is  to  become  of  the  house  and  the  children?" 

"  All  that  I  have  ordered  within  myself,"  answered  Madame  Van- 

"''^Ur,  calmly.     "The  children,  they  go  with  us  ;  the  house,  it  takes 

'^'^  of  itself ;  and  we  travel,  my  Paul,  on  horseback." 

'  My  faith  !  "  ejaculated  the  worthy  man,  staring  at  the  partner  of 
'  existence  with  open-mouthed  wonder  and  admiration.     "You 
■"^  ^n  extraordinary  woman — a  wom.in  of  ide.ts  and  of  resolution. 

*  H'e  shall   require  three   horses — two  for  ourselves  and  the 
^''^Iren,  and  one  to  carry  the  tent  and  provisions  for  the  journey,"' 
Vol.  cclviii.    no.  1S51. 


his  . 


A 


2IO  The   Gentleman  s  Magasine. 

pursued  Marie.     "  Therefore,  seeing  ve  have  but  a  couple  of  our  own, 
thou  must  borrow,  Paul,  the  brown  marc  of  Jaques  Boivin." 

Again  her  husband  administered  a  reflective  rub  to  his  curly 
yellow  |)ate.  Then,  a  broad  smile  spread  over  his  good-humoured 
countenance,  and  he  clapped  his  great  hands  together  like  a  pleased 
child.  "  Why,  it  wil!  be  charming  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  We  will  make 
a  holiday  of  it,  my  Marie— a  grand  holiday.  The  weather,  it  is 
lovely ;  and  the  two  children,  they  will  be  out  of  themselves  with 
joy.  You  will  see  your  father,  also.  We  shall  pay  a  visit  to  the 
house  of  your  father — is  it  not  so  ? " 

"  Without  doubt,"  returned  his  wife.  "We  shall  go  directly  there. 
I  have  not  seen  the  poor  father  since  the  death  of  the  poor  mother. 
It  goes  without  saying  that  we  rest  at  my  old  home — the  more 
especially  since  it  is  but  a  few  hours  from  Quebec." 

"Yes,  yes.  Truly  the  plan  is  a  capital  one.  And  you  have 
reason,  my  life,  when  you  say  that  it  will  be  better  that  you  speak 
yourself  with  this  Mademoiselle  Estcourt,  I  trust,  however,  that  you 
will  not  oppose  that  I  deliver  the  letter  with  my  own  hand — because 
so  I  promised  to  our  dead  friend?  " 

"  Be  not  alarmed,  you  shall  keep  your  promise,  my  Paul.  You 
shall  go  alone  to  call  upon  the  young  lady — and  you  shall  deliver  the 
writing,  and  relate  al!  about  the  accident,  and  the  death  of  poor  M. 
Stephens,  Then  you  shall  inform  her  that  your  wife  and  the  child, 
Claude,  are  in  the  neighbourhood — and,  as  you  will  see,  she  will 
propose  of  herself  to  pay  us  a  visit  at  my  father's  farm." 

"  Tu  le  crois  ?  And  have  you  resolved  with  yourself,  who  this 
Mees  Estcourt  can  be — why  she  should  interest  herself  in  the  child? 
Perhaps  it  is  that  she  knew  something  of  the  mother,  who  must 
assuredly  be  dead?    What  thinkest  thou?" 

"I  think  I  may  possibly  discover  something,  &1.  least,  about  the 
mother  from  Mademoiselle,"  rejoined  Marie  drily,    "  At  any  rate,  X 
will  try.     And,  Paul,  I  will  make  thee  a  prediction.     This  afiairwil* 
turn  out  a  good  thing  for  us— for  thee  and  me  and  our  dear  Louis 
We  shall  take  other  journeys  than  this  one — we  shall  grow  rich — «^^    I 
shall  presently  depart  altogether  from  this  triste  and  solitary  spot"  | 

"  Oh,  no  !  Say  not  so,  my  Marie  I  That  I  should  deplore  greatl^^"  I 
To  quit  my  farm,  and  our  neighbours?  No,  no — that  would  be  *  ' 
misfortune  ! "  ' 

"  Paul,  my  beloved,  thou  hast  no  soul — no  ambition  !  Therefbi^"^3 

I  must  have  them  for  thee.     But  go,  now — I  have  much  to  do "I 

many  preparations  to  make."  t 

"And  I,  likewise,"  returned  her  husband,  shaking  the  passic:^^^  ! 


The  Unforeseen. 


flood  from  his  brow.  "  Since  we  are  both  to  leave  the  farm,  it  will 
be  neces5.tr)'  that  I  find  someone  to  charge  himself  with  the  care  of 
the  caitle.     And  there  are  other  lillle  matters  to  which  I  must  give 

Early  on  the  tliird  morning  following  this  conversation,  Paul 
VindeieuT  and  his  wife — or  rather  (we  beg  Madame's  pardon  for  this 
iccidenlal  Inversion  of  the  right  order)  Madame  Vandeleur  and  her 
husband,  set  off  on  their  long  horseback  journey,  each  with  a  child 
moanttd  in  front,  and  accompanied,  for  a  mile  or  two  upon  their 
KJ)',  bj-  the  whoie  I'iUage,  who  had  come  forth  to  bid  them  "  God 
speed" 

a  single  exception,  no  misadventure  of  any  kind  befell  the 
tntellers.     One  contretemps,  however,  did  befall  them,  and  that,  in 
Bopinion,  at  all  events,  of  Paul,  of  a  very  serious  nature.     And 
Ig  that  it  involved,  as  he  thought,  the  failure,  to  a  great  extent, 
K)fae  expedition — the  destruction  of  its  raison   d'etre — he  might 
1  r^ard  it  in  that  light.     The  mischance  in  question  was  the 
p  of  the  letter  lie  was  carr>'ing  for  the  de.id  man — of  those  lines 
li  poor  Stephens  had  penned  with  such   difficulty,  and  con- 
g  the  safe  delivery  of  which  he  had  manifested  such  intense 
How  he  came  to  lose  the  letter  Paul  never  could,  to  the 

■  of  his  days,  understand  ;  and,  being  somewhat  superstitious,  he 

■  wont  to  attribute  the  misfortune  to  the  agency  of  the  Evil  One. 
( in  truth,  there  did  appear  to  have  been  something  of  witch- 

r  diablerie  about  the  matter.  Certainly,  at  any  rate,  Paul 
Id  have  small  reason  to  blame  himself,  for  he  had  taken  precau- 
rtioos  enough  to  ensure  the  safety  of  the  paper.  Uefore  leaving 
P  ^me  he  had  begged  his  wife  to  make  a  small  pocket  for  its  insertion 
'  "isiiJe  his  homespun  blouse,  and  the  top  of  this  pocket  he  had 
^'^^ured  with  a  pin.  Each  evening,  moreover,  when  encamped  for 
"benight,  he  had  made  assurance  doubly  sure,  by  taking  out  the  pin 
*'*d  looking  to  see  if  the  paper  was  safe.  And  safe  it  always  had 
***»!,  up  till  close  upon  the  end  of  the  journey — up  till  the  evening 
*''iai  the  tent  was  pitched  for  the  last  time,  and  the  little  party 
"•"ere  expecting  to  reach  their  destination  by  noon  next  day. 

On  that  evening,  however,  although,  when  he  came  to  examine 
^^  tbe  pocket  was  all  right,  with  the  big  pin  in  its  usual  position,  the 
^^*to,  alas,  was  gone  !  For  a  long  time  Paul  could  not  credit  the 
^<X  He  turned  the  pocket  inside  out;  he  overhauled  every  part 
**^  fiis  apparel ;  he  searched  the  tent  within  and  without.  But  to 
?*^  purpose  ;  the  letter  was  not  to  be  found. 

In  great  dismay,  the  simple  and  conscientious  fellow  declared 


i 


i 


d  1 2  The  Gmtle^nafis  Magazitu. 

that  he  would  retrace  every  step  of  the  distance  they  had  travened 
that  day  up  to  the  spot  where  they  had  rested  on  the  previous 
evening,  and  where  he  had  last  enjoyed  ocular  demonstration  as  to 

the  safety  of  his  trust. 

Against  this  decision  Madame  at  first  protested ;  but,  eventuaDj 
perceiving  that  only  in  that  way  could  her  husband's  peace  of  mind 
be  secured,  she  yielded  her  assent.  Already,  as  she  knew,  Paul  hid 
suffered  a  good  deal  of  disquietude  in  reference  to  their  late  lodgei'i 
affairs. 

Although  he  had  not  caught  those  three  words  (so  potent  in 
their  effect  upon  hersclQ,  whereby  the  young  Englishman  had  sought 
to  impress  upon  his  listeners  the  value  of  its  contents,  Paul  had 
distinctly  heard  what  else  he  had  said  about  the  small  leathern  box. 
He  had  seen  him  point  to  the  receptacle  where  it  was  to  be  found ; 
he  had  heard  him  state  that  it  contained  papers  of  great  importance; 
and  he  had  responded  to  his  urgent  appeal  that  he  would  convey  i^ 
as  well  as  the  letter,  to  Miss  Estcourt. 

Nevertheless,  when  Marie  and  he  had  gone  together  to  seaidb 
for  it,  nothing  in  the  least  answering  to  the  description  he  had  given  of 
the  case  had  been  discovered  in  poor  Mr.  Stephens's  room.  Neither, 
although,  to  satisfy  his  scruples,  Marie  had  permitted  him  to  ransadc 
the  house  high  and  low,  had  anything  of  the  sort  turned  up. 

The  good  fellow  had  been  fain,  at  length,  to  believe  in  his  wiftt 
explanation  of  the  i)henomenon — to  wit,  that  the  dying  man's  mind 
had  been  wandering;  that  he  had  been  confusing  seasons  and 
places  j  that  the  case,  if  it  had  any  existence  at  all  outside  his  fanqr, 
must  have  been  something  that  had  interested  him  in  former  days 
and  other  localities.  Under  the  circumstances  of  its  blank  absence, 
this  explanation  appeared  reasonable  enough  ;  and,  though  scarcely 
at  the  bottom  satisfied  thereby,  Paul  had  submitted  to  the  judgment 
of  his  wiser  spouse.  Tlie  present  matter,  however,  ^vas  another 
thing.  The  letter,  at  all  events,  had  existed.  It  had  been 
entrusted  to  his  deliverance,  and  having  so  mysteriously  lost  it|  it 
was  his  duty  to  make  every  effort  towards  its  recovery. 

Rising  at  daybreak,  Paul  saddled  his  horse,  and  leaving  his  wife 
and  the  children  to  await  his  return,  he  made  his  way  back  to  the 
place  where  they  had  slept  the  night  before.  That  the  paper  conld 
have  escaped  from  his  pinned -up  pocket  seemed  a  physical  impoi- 
sibility  (despite  which  Paul  rode  with  his  eyes  constantly  on  the 
ground);  his  only  hope  was  to  find  that,  in  looking  at  it  on  the 
previous  evening,  he  had  somehow  allowed  it  to  slip  from  its  plao& 
The  most  diligent  quest,  however,  for  a  long  distance  on  every  side 


The  Unforeseen.  213 

of  their  late  encampment  proved  unavailing;  and  about  midnight 
the  poor  fellow,  having  taken  no  rest  and  very  little  food  for  nineteen 
hours,  returned  to  his  wife  in  a  crestfallen  and  disconsolate  condi- 
tion of  mind  Then  Marie  set  herself  to  console  him  in  her  sweetest 
and  pleasantest  manner.  She  showed  him  that  it  was,  in  no  way, 
his  fault,  and  that  he  had  no  right  or  reason  to  blame  himself  for 
the  accident  (which  was,  perhaps,  of  no  great  consequence  after  all) ; 
that  his  proper  course  now  was  to  resign  himself  piously  to  the 
will  of  Heaven,  or  the  force  of  circumstances.  And  so  well  did  she 
succeed  in  her  efforts,  that  Paul's  kindly  and  troubled  face  gradually 
brightened  up,  and  after  calling  her  his  angel  a  good  many  times, 
he  sank  into  a  peaceful  slumber  of  utter  exhaustion. 

For  one  day  after  their  arrival  at  the  house  of  her  father,  Madame 
Vandeleur  compelled  her  husband  to  rest  Then  she  despatched  him, 
with  full  instructions  as  to  his  speech  and  conduct,  on  his  mission  to 
Miss  Estcourt,  in  Quebec  To  the  missing  case,  Madame  insisted,  no 
reference  whatever  must  be  made ;  but  Paul  might  tell  the  young 
lady  about  the  letter  he  had  lost,  also  about  the  dreadful  casualty 
which  had  resulted  in  the  sudden  death  of  the  young  Englishman. 

Further,  he  not  only  might,  but  must'wiioxm  Mademoiselle  Estcourt 
that,  with  his  last  breath,  M.  Stephens  had  averred  that  she  would 
charge  herself  with  the  care  and  maintenance  of  the  little  Claude ; 
and  he  must  add  that  his  wife  had  brought  the  child  down  to  the 
neighbourhood,  and  would  be  happy  to  receive  a  visit  from  her  at 
her  earliest  convenience. 


Chapter  X. 

BRIBERY  AND  CORRUPTION. 

Miss  Estcourt  did  not,  apparently,  find  it  convenient  to  visit 
Madame  Vandeleur  quite  so  speedily  as  the  latter  had  anticipated 
Eight  days  elapsed  from  the  date  of  Paul's  call  upon  her  at  her  own 
home,  before  a  letter  arrived  announcing  that  the  young  lady  would 
be  at  the  farm  of  Madame's  father  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  following 
afternoon. 

This  letter  was  addressed  to  Paul,  and  the  visit  it  advertised  was 
q)oken  of  as  meant  for  him  fully  as  much  as  for  his  wife. 

Nevertheless,  before  the  hour  appointed  for  it,  Madame  Vande- 
letir  sent  her  husband  out  of  doors.  She  had  a  special  reason,  she 
informed  him,  for  desiring  to  receive  Miss  Estcourt  alone,  in  the  first 
instance.    As,  however,  his  presence  might  be  required  before  the 


214  ^^^  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

interview  terminated,  he  was  not,  she  commanded,  to  go  far  away. 
He  was  to  retire,  merely,  to  a  small  plantation  at  a  short  distance  in 
the  rear  of  the  house — taking  with  him  the  two  children — ^and  wis 
there  to  hold  himself  in  readiness  for  a  summons  to  return.  This 
arrangement  effected,  Marie  was  pretty  sure  of  having  the  dwelling  to 
herself.  Always  something  of  a  misogynist,  her  father  had  permitted 
no  woman  to  enter  the  house  since  her  mother's  death.  After  that 
event,  he  had  taken  to  live  with  him  a  nephew — a  young  fellow  about 
twenty- five,  to  whom  he  had  conceived  a  strong  partiality,  and  to 
whom  he  had  promised  (though  his  daughter  was  not  yet  aware  of 
this  fact)  the  reversion  of  his  little  estate.  Living  alone,  and  doing 
their  own  cooking  and  cleaning,  the  two  men  managed,  also,  with 
very  little  extraneous  assistance,  all  the  labour  of  the  farm.  At  pre- 
sent they  were  particularly  busy,  and  Marie  did  not  expect  them 
home  from  the  fields  until  rather  a  late  supper  hour. 

Quite  alone,  therefore,  and  attired  in  her  best  gown,  Madame 
Vandeleur  awaited  with  considerable  impatience  the  coming  of  her 
visitor — agoing  to  the  door  every  few  minutes,  as  the  specified  time  drew 
near,  to  scan  the  narrow,  rulty  lane  whereby  the  farm  was  approached 
Lonely  in  situation — for  no  habitation  stood  within  a  mile  of  it — the 
house  was  an  ancient  one,  and  both  it  and  the  outbuildings  wore  a 
rickety,  dilapidated  air.  Inside  and  out,  however,  all  had  been  made 
as  clean  and  orderly  as  ^Lidame's  deft  fingers  could  contrive,  and 
she.  was  in  hopes  that  Miss  Estcourt  would  not  receive  a  very 
unfavourable  impression  of  the  place — such  an  impression  not  being 
desirable  in  her  (Madame's)  own  interests. 

At  length,  just  as  impatience  was  verging  upon  irritation 
(although  the  expected  visitor  was  not  yet  a  quarter  of  an  hour  behind 
time),  the  keen-eyed  little  woman  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a 
vehicle  jolting  up  the  ill-kept  lane. 

From  that  vehicle,  when  it  stopped  in  front  of  the  house,  there 
emerged  two  young  ladies.  Glancing  from  one  to  the  oUier,  as  they 
stepped  forward,  Marie  at  once  recognised  in  the  taller  and  fore- 
most the  original  of  that  portrait  she  had  found  amongst  poor 
Hubert  Stephens's  papers.  It  was  this  young  lady  who  first  addressed 
her. 

"You  are  Madame  Vandeleur,  I  suppose?"  The  inquiry  was 
put  in  a  very  polite  tone. 

Madame  bowed  acquiescence,  and  invited  the  ladies  to  enter. 
One  of  them,  however — not  the  original  of  the  portrait — declined 
her  courtesy.  "  Thank  you,  I  will  wait  here,"  she  said,  seating  her- 
self on  the  edge  of  a  well,  from  which  the  water  was  raised  by  a 


The  Unforeseen. 

reiy  primitive  appliance,  and  wliich,  being  close  to  the  house,  was 
Aebered  from  the  sun  by  its  projecting  eaves.  "  My  friend  is 
Miss  Eslcourt.  It  is  she,  as  you  know,  who  has  business  with 
ou.    I  would  rather  remain  here:" 

Against  this  su^^cstion  Madame  Vandeleur  offered  a  faint 
.protest ;  but  noticing  that  Miss  Estcourt  did  not  join  therein,  she 
.desisted  and  led  the  way  in. 

Do  me  the  honour,  Mademoiselle,  to  seat  yourself,"  she  begged, 
jlacing  a  chair  so  that  the  Jight  would  fall  full  upon  Claudia's  face, 
whDit  she  drew  her  own  seat  a  litde  into  the  shade.  "  My  iiusband 
iKeived  this  rooming  a  letter  from  Mademoiselle  ;  but  I  have 
tiirccted  that  he  absents  himself  for  a  short  space,  because  I 
concluded  that  Mademoiselle  might  perhaps  prefer  first  to  liave  a  little 
toavetsalion  w-ith  me  alone." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  have  concluded  so,"  Claudia 
Kjoined  with  some  hauteur.  But  in  another  second,  her  expression 
fiuDged,  and  she  hastily  added  :  "  Yes,  it  will  be  better.  Yes,  ccr- 
'twily,  I  shall  prefer  it." 

What  occult  quality  was  there  in  the  smiling  glance  of  her 
ioicrlocutor  that  had  made  Claudia  feel,  as  she  suddenly  did,  that 
ot  by  preference  only,  but  of  necessity,  her  dealings  regarding  the 
matter  in  hand  must  be  conducted  with  this  little  woman,  not  with 
Itr  big  husband  ?  Wiiat  was  it  that,  without  the  utterance  of  a 
'pliable  on  Marie's  part,  or  any  apparent  change  of  aspect,  had 
impressed  her  (Claudia)  with  a  sense  of  some  power  or  hold  over 
™  possessed  by  Madame  Vandeleur  ?  Wliatever  it  was,  Miss 
EstCQurt's  attitude  of  mind  became  al!  at  once  one  of  caution  and  of 
Wndliation. 

"My  object  in  calling  upon  you  this  afternoon,  Madame 
Vindeleur,"  she  began,  "  is,  as  you  are  aware,  lo  make  some 
"iMgement  respecting  the  litde  boy,  Mr.  Stephens's  child,  at  present 
^"^  your  charge,"  Claudia  looked  round  nervously,  as  she  made 
1  allusion,  and  seemed  to  be  listening  towards  a  half-closed 
or. 

"The  child  is  out  of  doors  with  my  husband,"  observed  Marie, 
"•'■mng  the  uneasy  regard.  "But  Mademoiselle  will  see  him 
("Wntly,  as  she  doubtless  desires." 

Thank  you ;  yes,  I  should  like  lo  see  him  before  I  go.  I — I 
'"^e  an  interest  in  the  child,  Madame,  because  1  knew  something  of 
™"noiher — because,  in  fact,  she  was  a  special  friend  of  mine," 

Madame  bowed  her  head  with  extreme  politeness.  "  The  little 
*^Wt3e's  mother,  then,  Mademoiselle,  Js  dead  ?  "  she  inquired. 


i 


2i6  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

"  He  is  an  orphan,  yes,"  returned  Claudia. 
"  Pauvre  enfant ! "  sighed  Madame.  "  It  is  very  good  of 
Mademoiselle  to  interest  herself  in  the  boy,  seeing  that  he  is  no 
relative  of  hers.  But  poor  M.  Stephens,  when  he  was  dying,  seemed 
to  make  sure  that  Mademoiselle  would  charge  herself  with  his  affairs." 
Claudia  blushed  vividly,  betraying  thus  a  lack  of  self-command 
which  inspired  her  companion  with  secret  contempt  "Your 
husband  tells  mc,  Madame  Vandeleur,  that  you  have  only  one  chiM 
of  your  own  ?  '*  she  questioned. 

"  That  is  true  :  we  have  had  to  give  three  others  to  the  angels." 
"  And  you  have  had  this  little  Claude  under  your  care  now  for  neaiij 
a  year?    You  have  found  him  a  nice  companion  for  your  boy,  have 
you  not  ?  .  .  .    Would  you— would  you  like,  Madame  Vandeleur,  to 
adopt  him  ?  " 

Madame  paused  for  some  time  before  replying.  To  adopt  the 
child  might  be  exactly  what,  under  certain  circumstances,  would  beat 
suit  her  designs.  Nevertheless,  she  by  no  means  jumped  at  the 
suggestion.  On  the  contrar)-,  she  held  up  her  hands  with  a  gesture 
of  dismay. 

"  Ma  foi.  Mademoiselle  !  If  the  bread  and  the  meat  grew  on  the 
bushes,  one  might  speak  with  all  that  sang  froid  about  adopting  a 
child.     lUit,  consider,  we  are  i  oor  i)eople,  my  husband  and  I." 

"  Of  course  I  do  not  ask  you  to  do  it  without  some  recompense, 
or  without  a  suitable  provision  against  the  expense  of  the  boy's 
maintenance,"  exphined  Claudia  eagerly.  <'I  could  offer  you,  in 
the  first  place,  ;^i,ooo,  about  five  thousand  dolhrs,  as  a  gift  to 
yourselves." 

Marie's  eyes  glistened.  Forty  years  ago,  and  to  a  person  whose 
familiarity  with  gold  was  of  so  exceedingly  limited  a  nature,  the  sum 
just  named  appeared  a  very  large  one.  But  Madame  was  wise  and 
wary — too  wary  to  grasp  at  this  temptation  with  undue  haste. 

**  Does  Madame — Mademoiselle,  I  mean — wish  us  to  take  the 
child  altogether?  To  bring  him  up  as  our  own?"  she  demanded— 
asking  the  question  in  order  to  gain  time  for  reflection,  rather  than 
with  a  view  to  information. 

"Yes,  I  want  you  to  let  him  bear  your  name,  I  want  you  to  look 
upon  him  as  your  own  son — to  teach  him  to  consider  you  as  his 
parents — to  prevent  liini,  if  possible,  from  ever  knowing  that  you  are 

not  really  so,"  pursued  Claudia.     "That  is "  she  subjoined, 

beginning  to  stammer  as  she  perceived  that  in  her  anxiety  to  explain 
her  wishes  she  w*as  losing  sight  of  prudence.  "  That  is,  I  think  this 
would  be  the  better  plan." 


The  Unforeseen.  217 

"  Possibly  yes.  But  I  know  not,  Mademoiselle,  whether  my 
husband  will  agree,"  observed  Madame,  pretending  to  hesitate. 
"  Five  thousand  dollars  is  not  a  great  fortune  when  one  has  to  keep 
out  of  it  a  growing  boy  with  a  large  appetite — Mon  Dieu,  no  ! " 

"  But  I  am  not  going  to  ask  you  to  keep  him  out  of  it,''  Claudia 
responded.  "That  sum  would  be  a  free  gift  to  you  and  your 
husband.  In  addition  to  it,  you  would  receive  a  certain  amoimt 
every  year.  I  intend — at  least,  those  interested  in  the  child  intend — 
to  arrange  that  he  should  have  a  little  independence  when  he  comes 
of  age.  Not,  however,  you  must  understand,  that  he  has  any  claim 
upon  anyone  to  do  all  this  for  him.  I  and  my  friends  are  merely 
acting  out  of  regard  to  his  dead  parents.  And  the  whole  transaction 
is  to  be  kept — we  desire  it  to  be  kept — a  profound  secret" 

"  Mais,  oui.  I  understand  all  that,"  replied  Marie,  smiling  in  a 
peculiar  fashion,  and  thinking  to  herself  what  a  bungler  the  girl  was — 
how  lacking  in  the  art  of  invention,  the  power  of  skilful  deception. 
"  Mademoiselle  may  depend  upon  our  secresy.  My  Paul  and  I,  we 
are  no  babblers.  But  about  the  money  that  is  to  be  paid  yearly  ? 
Mademoiselle  was  saying ?  " 

"Yes,  I  was  about  to  tell  you  that,  if  you  consent  to  my  proposal, 
the  interest  of  ;;^ 3,000 — nearly  15,000  dollars — will  be  paid  over  to 
you,  for  his  use  and  your  own,  until  your  child,  Claude,  comes  of  age 
— until  he  is  twenty-one.  That  amount  will  be  placed  in  the  hands 
of  a  trustee,  who  will  have  power  to  invest  it  as  he  chooses.  And  I 
have  no  doubt  that,  as  the  gentleman  I  .  •  who  will  be  trusted  with 
it,  is  a  very  clever,  as  well  as  a  thoroughly  honest  man,  he  will 
manage  to  get  a  good  rate  of  interest  for  you.  But  even  at  five  per 
cent,  you  know,  it  would  come  to  700  dollars  a  year." 

"  I  think  I  comprehend,"  murmured  Madame  Vandeleur,  con- 
cealing with  some  difficulty  the  intense  excitement  under  which  she 
was  labouring.  All  this  talk  about  interest,  investments,  and  per 
cent  had,  it  is  true,  proved  a  little  bewildering — since  those  terms 
were  practically,  and  almost  theoretically,  unknown  to  her — but  the 
little  woman's  acute  intelligence  had  enabled  her  to  grasp  pretty  dis- 
tinctly the  meaning  of  it  Then  the  figures  that  had  been  mentioned, 
those,  at  least,  were  clear  enough!  To  Marie  they  represented 
wealth,  luxury,  wonderful  delights  and  possibilities  of  life — some- 
thing more  immediately  real,  practical,  and  tangible  than  that  other 
enormous,  but,  for  the  present,  unavailable,  treasure  she  knew  of. 
Moreover,  by  the  very  act  that  was  to  secure  these  immediate 
benefits — the  adoption  of  the  child  as  her  own  son — would  not  her 
way  to  an  appropriation,  or  part  appropriation,  of  th.^  tL^:&s»as.^  \dl 


2i8  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

question  be  made  more  easy  ?    Marie's  head  began  to  swim,  a 
gazed  forward  through  a  bedazzling  vista  of  futurity — but  she  did  not 
lose  it 

"  I  think  I  comprehend,"  she  repeated.  "We  are  to  receive,  my 
husband  aud  I,  700  dollars  a  year  to  dress,  and  support,  and  educate 
the  boy,  and  we  are  to  call  him  ours.  But  Mademoiselle  spoke,  also, 
of  15,000  dollars.  Did  s!ie  say  that  all  that  money  would  belong  to 
the  littlt  Claude  in  the  end?" 

"Yes.    It  will  be  paid  to  him  when  he  is  twenty-one  years  of  age." 

'■  Sainte  Vierge  !  But  it  is  a  great  sum.  Mademoiselle  must  be 
terribly  rich  I "  cried  Marie,  her  appetite  for  gold — the  auri  sacra 
fames  which  had  now  taken  full  possession  of  her — increasing  with 
what  it  was  fed  upon.  "If  Madame — I  beg  pardon,  Mademoiselle 
(Marie's  slips  of  the  tongue  were  not  accidental),  would  divide  it  with 
us  ?  If  she  would  give  to  us — so  that  my  Louis  could  likewise  be 
provided  for — 10,000  dollars,  instead  of  the  5,000  she  promised  as  a 
gift,  and  let  the  other  10,000  go  to  Claude,  then  we  would  make  the 
bargain  de  bon  gr^.  We  would  take  the  child  out  of  the  hands  of 
Mademoiselle  entirely.     What  sa.ys  she?" 

"  I  say,  most  emphatically,  no  !  "  rephed  Claudia  with  sptriL 
"I  have  made  you  a  proposition,  Madame  Vandelcur,  which  I 
consider  very  liberal.  If  you  do  not  care  to  agree  to  it,  I  must — 
there  will  be  other  people  willing  enough,  I  am  sure,  to  accept  it," 

"Without  doubt,"  assented  Marie,  politely.  "Yes,  of  that  I, 
too,  am  sure.  But " — {she  drew  her  chair  nearer,  and  subjoined 
with  a  smile) — "But,  if  I  might  presume,  nevertheless,  to  advise 
Madante" — (this  time  Marie  laid  .1  stress  on  the  title  and  did  not 
withdraw  it) — "she  will  arrange  dffairs  with  us.  It  will  be  wiser 
and  safer." 

"Safer?  How  do  you  mean?"  faltered  Claudia,  turning  pale. 
"And  why  do  you  keep  calling  me  Madame?  My  name  is  Miss 
Estcourt," 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course !  I  offer  a  thousand  excuses  to  Mees 
Estcourt,  It  is  absurd,  seeing  how  wonderfully  young  she  looks  in 
that  charming  chapeau,  to  address  her  as  Madame  " — Marie  paused 
to  regard,  with  much  admiration,  the  very  becoming  Gainsboroi:^h 
hat  worn  by  her  visitor,  and  beneath  which  Claudia's  delicate 
features  did,  in  truth,  look  almost  childlike — "Alions!  how  could 
one  believe  it,  that  she  was  Madame?  " 

"But  you  seem  as  though  you  did  belie/e  it.  What  can  you 
mean  ? "  again  stammered  Claudia, 

"  Ah  !  we  will  not  enter  into  explanations.     A  dying  man,  he    s 


Tfie  Unforeseen.  2ig 

may  sometimes  let  out  secrets.  But  one  need  not  give  attention 
to  such  things.  One  can  forget,  t/  /luessaryJ*  Madame  Vandeleur 
threw  such  emphasis  and  signification  into  these  words,  and  accom- 
panied them  by  a  glance  so  full  of  power  and  meaning,  that  Claudia 
felt  a  sudden  conviction  that  her  secret  was  known  to  the  little 
woman,  and  that  any  further  attempt  to  mislead  her,  or  to  disguise 
the  truth,  would  prove  worse  than  useless. 

"  Does  anyone  else  know  what  you  suspect  ?  "  she  demanded, 
clasping  her  hands  together  in  piteous  agitation.  "  And  have  you 
any  proof — any  proof  that  it  is  true  ?  " 

**  Nobody  knows.  Mademoiselle,  not  one  soul  but  myself,"  replied 
Marie,  answering  the  first,  but  ignoring  the  second  question,  "  My 
husband,  he  has  not  the  least  idea.  That  was  the  reason  I  sent  him 
out  of  the  way.  And  with  me,"  she  went  on  soothingly,  "  all  shall 
be  silent  as  the  tombs.  Assure  yourself  of  that.  Mademoiselle.  We 
will  arrange  matters  comfortably — you  and  I,  between  ourselves — and 
then  it  will  be  as  though  I  had  the  tongue  cut  out  Courage !  there 
is  nothing  to  fear  from  me.  But  you  will  consent  now,  perhaps,  that 
we  divide  the  money  with  the  little  Claude.  Ten  thousand  dollars  for 
his  portion,  and  the  other  ten  for  us,  the  others  of  the  family — for  my 
husband  and  myself  and  our  Louis  ?  " 

"  If  you  insist  upon  it,  Madame  Vandeleur,  you  shall  have  ten 
thousand  dollars,"  said  Claudia,  summoning  all  her  pride  to  hide  her 
chagrin  in  making  this  concession.  "  But  I  shall  still  give  Claude 
fifteen.  And  that  will  leave  me  without  one  cent  that  I  can  call  my 
own !  Only  a  month  ago,  when  I  became  twenty-one,  I  obtained 
possession  of  a  little  fortune — ^;;^5,ooo  in  English  money — left  me  by 
the  will  of  an  uncle.  It  will  be  very  inconvenient,  however — ^very 
inconvenient  and  very  vexatious,  too — if  I  have  to  part  with  it  all." 

"But  Mees  Estcourt  can  get  plenty  more  money,"  suggested 
Marie  consolingly.  **  Her  father  is  so  rich.  One  cannot  say  how 
rich ! " 

"  You  are  mistaken.  I  cannot  get  any  money  from  my  father 
without  telling  him  for  what  purpose  I  require  it,"  protested  the  girl 
passionately.  "  If  it  had  not  been  for  my  uncle's  legacy  I  could  have 
done  nothing  whatever  for  the  child.  And  it  may  be  very  awkward 
for  me  to  have  none  of  this  money  in  the  bank,  because — ^because  I 
am  going  to  be  married  in  a  few  weeks." 

*'  Ha,  ^a  1 "  ejaculated  Madame  Vandeleur.  "  You  go  to  many 
yourself?  And  the  gentleman  he  knows  nothing  ?  Ciel  1  Made- 
moiselle is  brave."  She  fell  into  silence,  regarding  Miss  Estcourt 
with  an  expression  of  much  curiosity  and  some  little  \)itY» 


"  You  shall  have  the  money ;  all  of  it ! "  broke  forth  Clflum 
with  alarmed  and  petulant  vehemence^  "  But  for  mercy's  sake,  let 
us  settle  the  thing  at  once  ?  Do  you  consent  to  take  tlic  child,  and 
to  bring  him  up  as  your  own  son,  on  these  terms?  I  will  give  you 
a  cheque  for  two  thousand  pounds,  and  you  shall  be  paid  all  the 
interest  for  the  other  three  until  Claude  is  twenty-one.  Surely  that 
will  content  you  !  " 

Marie  controlled  herself  by  a  supreme  effort  The  word 
"  content  "  was  wholly  inadequate,  she  felt,  to  express  her  emotions 
of  transcendent  satisfaction  and  elation.  Never,  for  a  moment,  bad 
she  anticipated  such  an  issue  as  this  from  the  application  to  Miss 
Estcourt  I  Her  delighted  amazement  at  her  own  good  fortune  was 
only  equalled  by  contemptuous  astonishment  at  the  folly  of  her 
companion  in  parting  so  readily  with  so  great  a  sum. 

"  But  yes,  indeed,  Mademoiselle,  I  consent  with  a  good  heart," 
she  responded  in  a  quiet  voice,  but  with  sparkling  eyes.  "  Mademoiselle 
is  very  generous ;  but  she  will  not  repent  it.  It  will  be  always  a 
satisfaction  to  her  to  reflect  that  her  child  is  so  well  provided  for,  and 
tiiat  his  new  parents  will  be  able  to  bring  him  up  in  comfort  and  to 
have  him  educated  cotnme  ilfaut.  As  for  the  money — Mademoiselle, 
I  hope,  will  not  miss  it  Her  husband  doublless  will  be  rich  ?  " 
She  waited  for  a  moment,  but  Claudia  only  replied  by  a  nod  "  The 
bargain,  tlien,  it  is  made,"  she  went  on.  "  The  dear  little  Claude, 
he  is  now  mine,  and  I  will  be  a  good  mother  to  him  always.  That 
I  promised  to  his  father,  and  Mademoiselle  may  rest  satisfied  of  it 
But  will  it  be  wished  that  we  report,  from  time  to  time,  concerning 
his  health  and  welfare? " 

"  Certainly  not !  Most  decidedly  not  I  "  exclaimed  Claudia,  with 
trenchant  irritation.  "  I  never  wish  to  hear  anything  either  of  the 
child  or  of  you  again.  The  arrangement  is  that  you  are  to  teach  him 
to  believe  you  are  his  parents,  M.  Vandeleur  and  yourself.  The 
money  he  is  to  have  will  be  put  in  trust  for  him  as  Claude  Vandeleur. 
Vou  must  understand  that  1  shall  never  again  own  to  any  connection 
or  interest  in  him." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  comprehend  entirely.  All  shall  be  exactly  as 
Mademoiselle  desires.  And  now,  will  you  that  I  call  my  husband  ? 
Or  shall  I  first  bring  the  child  ?  You  would  like  to  see  him,  and  to 
bid  him  farewell?" 

"I  don't  know,"  hesitated  Claudia.  "  Yes,  bring  him  to  me  for 
a  few  moments." 


J 


The  Unforeseen.  221 


Chapter  XL 

GOOD-BYE  FOR  EVER. 

When  Madame  Vandeleur  had  left  the  house,  Claudia  sprang  to 
her  feet,  and  began  (as  was  her  habit  under  the  stress  of  any  great 
excitement)  to  pace  to  and  fro  over  the  boarded  floor  of  the  homely 
farm-house  kitchen.  For  three  years  she  had  been  a  mother,  but  as 
yet,  she  had  never  consciously  looked  upon  her  child.  At  her  own 
imperative  request,  he  had  been  taken  from  her  on  the  day  of  his 
birth,  and,  until  the  present  moment,  she  had  neither  had  the  oppor- 
tunity nor  the  desire  to  see  him.  Did  she  desire  it  now  ?  Claudia 
scarcely  knew  whether  she  did  or  no,  so  mixed  and  paradoxical  were 
her  sentiments.  But  unquestionably  she  was  very  much  agitated  at 
the  thought  of  this  meeting,  which  was  to  be  the  first  and,  as  she 
intended,  the  last  between  herself  and  the  poor  little  fellow  whom 
she  had,  as  it  were,  bartered  away  to  another  woman.  With  a 
prevision  that  the  interview  would  prove  a  trying  one  to  her  nerves, 
she  hoped  that  it  might  take  place  without  witnesses.  This  idea 
reminded  her  of  Ella  Thome  ;  and  going  to  the  door,  Claudia 
peeped  forth,  meaning  to  assure  her  friend  that  she  should  not  be 
kept  much  longer  waiting. 

Rather  to  her  surprise,  however,  Ella  was  no  longer  seated  on  the 
well  where  she  had  left  her,  neither  could  Claudia  see  her  anywhere. 

The  fact  was  that,  growing  weary  of  solitude  and  inaction,  Ella 
had  wandered  off  for  a  little  stroll,  and  coming  presently  to  the  wood 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  she  had  there  fallen  in  with  Paul  Vandeleur 
and  the  two  children. 

Intensely  abhorring  the  situation  in  which  she  found  herself  as  the 
confidant  of  Claudia's  miserable  secret,  Ella  had,  nevertheless,  aided 
and  abetted  her  friend's  schemes  to  the  extent  of  lending  her  the 
support  of  her  company  upon  the  present  expedition.  Also  she  had 
helped,  not  passively  but  actively,  in  another  way — viz.,  in  the 
securing  of  Claudia's  money  to  Claudia's  boy — ^and  she  meant  to  give 
still  further  assistance  in  the  same  direction.  For,  seeing  that  the 
latter  was  bent,  with  such  headstrong  determination,  upon  involving 
herself  still  further  in  the  meshes  of  duplicity  and  wrong,  this  seemed 
to  Ella  the  only  mode  in  which  something  of  justice  could  be  done. 
In  her  idea,  the  very  least  thing  that  Claudia  could  do  in  the  way  of 
atonement  to  her  injured  child  was  this  relinquishment  of  her  uncle's 
legacy  in  his  behalf.  Already,  in  taking  measures  towards  the 
securing  of  this  object,  Ella  felt,  not  without  reason^  that  she  had 


T!te  Gentleman's  . 


luctn^^ 


become  tarred  with  Ihe  pitch  in  which  she  w-as  so  reluct 
dabbling.  Tom  one  way  by  her  own  natural  uprightness,  and 
another  by  tnistalicn  notions  as  to  the  claims  of  friendship  and 
fidelity,  the  poor  girl's  conscience  was  far  from  at  ease  respecting  her 
own  share  in  these  proceedings,  and  she  marked  her  disapprobation 
of  them  in  such  manner  as  she  could ;  as,  for  instance,  in  refusing  to 
be  present  this  afternoon  at  the  interview  with  Madame  Vandeleur. 

Turning  away  from  the  door  in  front  of  the  house,  after  fruitlessly 
glancing  around  in  search  of  her  friend,  Claudia  caught  the  sound  of 
a  second  door  being  opened  and  closed,  and,  in  another  moment, 
Madame  Vandeleur  appeared  leading  a  little  boy  by  the  hand. 

"  Le  voici,  Mademoiselle  ;  this  is  our  Claude  !  "  she  announced. 
"Go,  my  child,  and  speak  with  the  pretty  lady."  And  loosening  her 
hand,  she  gave  him  a  gentle  push  forward,  then  adding,  "  1  will  leave 
you  tor  a  short  time.  Mademoiselle,"  retired,  with  a  courteous  and 
graceful  bow,  to  watch  the  interview  from  an  adjoining  closet, 
through  a  hole  made  by  the  removal  of  a  knot  of  wood  in  the 
boarded  partition. 

Meantime,  sinking  upon  a  chair,  Claudia  held  out  her  hands  with 
a  silent  gesture  of  invitation.  The  child  approached,  betraying  no 
fear,  but,  on  the  contrary,  regarding  her  with  a  look  of  great  interest 
and  admiration. 

"  Ah  !  comuie  tu  est  belle  I "  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  little 
hand  round  her  ungloved  fingers,  and  smiling  with  unabashed 
delight  into  her  face. 

A  strange  sensation— a  feeling  as  of  sudden  stricture  about  the 
heart,  and  then  of  an  equally  sudden  expansion  of  that  organ— over- 
took Miss  Estcourt.  Something  in  the  sound  of  that  ringing  infandle 
voice,  in  the  touch  of  those  soft  baby-hands,  seemed  to  thrill  to  the 
very  centre  of  her  being.  She  stooped  and  lifted  the  child  to  her 
knee,  pushed  back  his  hair,  and  kissed  him  on  the  brow  and  cheek. 
"  Can  you  speak  English,  Claude  ?  "  she  asked,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  But  yes,  only  I  must  not,"  he  answered  in  French. 

"  You  must  not  1  ^\'hy,  dear  ?  "  she  inquired  with  surprise. 

"  My  papa  does  not  allow  me  to  speak  English  to  anyone  but  bis 
own  self,"  babbled  the  child.  "  Poor  papa,  he  went  to  sleep,  oh,  so 
fast !  And  they  put  him  into  a  hole  in  the  ground,  because  nobody 
could  awaken  him.  But  Louis  thinks  he  will  have  got  out  of  the  hole 
by  the  time  we  go  back  home  ;  and  if  he  hasn't,  we  shall  take  some 
spades  and  dig  him  out,  Louis  and  I,  because  I  want  hira  so  much." 

Claudia  returned  no  answer  to  this  perfectly  serious  observation. 
She  was  scrutinising  the  little  fellow's  features  to  see  in  how  far  he 


Tlie  Unforeseen.  223 

resembled  the  father  of  whom  he  was  speaking — the  man  whom  she 
had  so  bitterly  disliked,  and  whom,  even  now  that  he  lay  in  his  grave, 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  pardon  for  having  been  to  her  the 
cause  of  so  much  unhappiness.  But  though,  as  a  result  of  her  study, 
she  found  the  resemblance  between  the  two  very  striking  (for  Claude 
had  inherited  poor  Hubert's  dark  eyes  and  handsome  high-bred 
lineaments,  modified,  of  course,  by  his  age),  she  could  not  feel  any 
repugnance  to  the  child.  Yet,  before  she  had  seen  him,  Claudia  had 
been  sensible  of  entertaining  very  decided  repugnance  towards  this 
innocent  offspring  of  her  unhappy  and  deeply-regretted  union.  But, 
at  sight  of  his  pretty  baby-face,  at  touch  of  his  dimpled  little  hands, 
her  aversion  had  suddenly  melted  away,  and  someihing  of  the 
natural  maternal  feeling  had  been  born  within  her.  Half  frightened 
by  this  new,  unexpected  emotion,  this  strange  softening  and  yearning 
of  the  heart,  Claudia  hastened  to  break  the  spell  of  silence. 

"  You  used  to  speak  English,  then,  with  your  papa  sometimes, 
Claude  ? ''  she  questioned. 

"  Not  sometimes,  but  very  often,"  he  replied.  "  We  used  to  talk 
about  my  mamma  in  English." 

"  About  your  mamma  ?  "  echoed  Claudia  faintly. 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  mamma,  and  she  is  beautiful — belle  comme  tu — 
and  my  papa  says  she  is  good,  too.  But  I  don't  think  she  can  be, 
because  she  doesn't  love  him  and  she  doesn't  love  me,  and  it  makes 
him  cry  to  talk  about  her.  Oh  !  .  .  .  "  He  paused  suddenly  and 
made  a  little  gesture  of  distress,  then  broke  himself  into  tears. 

"  AVhat  is  the  matter,  my  darling?"  demanded  Claudia,  moved  by 
his  grief,  but,  at  the  same  time,  greatly  disquieted  by  his  remarks. 

"  Oh  !  I  ought  not  to  have  said  that !  Papa  never  allows  that  I 
speak  of  her,  of  my  mamma,  only  to  him  alone,  and  in  English. 
But  I  forgot,  and  .  .  .  and  I  never  forgot  before,"  he  sobbed. 

"  Never  mind  this  time,  dear.  Don't  cry ! "  soothed  Claudia. 
"  But,  listen,  Claude  ;  you  must  never,  never,  nether  say  anything  like 
this  again  to  anyone.  It  is  all  a  mistake.  You  have  no  mamma,  my 
poor  little  fellow,  you  have  never  had  any  mamma,  but  Madame 
Vandeleur.     Don't  you — don't  you  call  her  'ma  mbre'?" 

Claude  knitted  his  small  brows  in  perplexity. 

**  Yes,  but  ..."  he  stammered,  "  but  also  I  have  a  mamnian^ 
only  I  must  not  talk  of  her — is  it  not  true?" 

•*  No,  no  !  you  must  forget  all  that,  Claude.  Little  boys  can 
only  have  one  mammany  and  .  .*  .  and  that  was  your  mamma  who 
brought  you  in  to  see  me."  Claudia's  voice  shook,  and  she  ended 
the  sentence  with  a  sob. 


224  '^^^  Gentlematis  Magazine^ 

Claade  looked  up  startled.  He  was  by  no  meaAs^a  shy  diQdi 
and  he  had  experienced  no  alarm  on  being  left  alone  with  diis 
stranger — rather,  indeed,  he  had  felt  singularly  attracted  by  her.  The 
dawn  of  aesthetic  emotion  in  the  little  fellow  was  proved  by  his 
delight  in  her  delicate  beauty  and  daint}'  apparel.  Even  now,  thoa^ 
startled,  he  was  not  alarmed 

'•Qu'os  tu,  done?  Tu  vas  pleurer?"  he  asked,  in  his  pretty 
prattling  French,  putting  up  his  hand  to  stroke  her  face. 

All  at  once  Cbudia  broke  down.  She  caught  the  child  to  her 
breast,  and  began  tu  weep  softly,  straining  him  closer  and  closer,  and 
raining  kisses,  the  while,  on  his  round,  velvety  cheeks  and  rosy  lips. 

Madame  Vandeleur,  gazing  on  this  scene  from  her  unsuspected 
loophole,  grew  alarmed  Was  it  possible  that  Miss  Estcourt  might, 
after  all,  repent  of  her  bargain  ?  Marie's  own  maternal  feelings  were 
so  strong — she  knew  so  well  the  potency  of  caressing  little  fingen, 
of  chubby  baby-arms  clasped  around  a  mother's  neck  (as  those  of 
the  three-year-oli'  Claude  were  now  clasped  round  the  neck  of  her 
visitor  y^thai  a  sickening  fear  began  to  lay  hold  of  her  respecting 
the  security  of  the  golden  future  which  had  just  opened  before  her 
fascinated  eyes. 

Siiiiix>sing  the  young  lady  were  to  change  her  mind — to  claim 
the  child,  and  take  him  away,  and  upset  all  those  glorious  arrange* 
mcnts  ?  Marie  quaked  with  uneasiness.  She  had  as  little  anticipated, 
as  Claudia  herself  had  done,  an  effect  of  this  sort  from  an  introduction 
of  the  lK)y.  She  had  judged  "  Mademoiselle  "  to  be  a  person  wholly 
without  sensibility — and  behold  she  was  all  melted  in  tears,  fondling 
and  moaning  over  her  disowned  child,  as  though  already  he  had  won 
a  place  in  her  heart  I  Marie  felt  that  it  was  high  time  to  go  in  and 
put  an  end  to  that  interview.  Accordingly,  creeping  on  tiptoe  to 
the  back-door,  she  opened  and  closed  it  noisily — as  though  re-enter- 
ing the  house  by  that  way — and  presented  herself  to  Claudia.  "  Pardon, 
Mademoiselle,  have  I  come  too  soon  ?  "  she  inquired.  "  I  was  in  fear 
that  the  little  one  might  be  troublesome  to  you." 

Claudia  hastily  dried  her  eyes. 

"  No  ;  he  has  not  been  troublesome,"  she  answered.  "  But  I 
am  glad  you  have  come.  Take  him  away,  Madame,  please  take  him 
away  before  your  husband  or  my  friend  comes  in.  I  ...  I  ...  " 
She  caught  her  breath  for  a  moment  to  prevent  a  fresh  outburst 
•*  Give  me  one  more  kiss,  Claude,  and  then  go,  go  to  thy  mother. 
Good-bye,  my  darling,"  she  murmured  in  her  own  tongue.  "  Good- 
bye for  ever  !    Good-bye  for  ever  ! " 

She  loosened  her  embrace,  but  the  little  fellow  clung  to  her  with 


TIu  Unforeseen.  225 

curious  tenacity.  Madame  Vandeleur  had,  at  length,  to  take  him 
imy  from  her  knee  absolutely  by  force,  and  to  carry  him  crying  from 
le  room,  his  little  arms  extended  towards  the  ''pretty  lady"  whom 
e  was  so  reluctant  to  leave. 

"  Mon  Dieu  ! "  muttered  Marie  to  hersel£  "  It  was  a  little 
angerous,  that  experiment.  But,  happily,  it  has  ended  welL  She 
as  not  changed  her  mind  \ " 


Chapter  XII. 

A  QUIET  WEDDING. 

No,  Claudia  Estcourt  had  not  changed  her  mind.  Yet  the 
anger  apprehended  by  Madame  Vandeleur  had  not  been  wholly 
rithout  foundation.  For  one  moment — ^just  one  moment — as  she 
ad  sat  with  her  child's  arms  clasped  about  her  neck,  Claudia  had 
acillated  in  her  purpose.  For  one  moment  she  had  asked  herself 
hould  she  abandon  that  purpose?  Should  she,  at  this  eleventh 
kour,  acknowledge  her  clandestine  marriage  and  claim  her  child? 
Ihould  she  brave  her  father's  shocked  displeasure,  and  risk  the  loss 
f  Douglas  Awdry's  love  ?  Should  she  expose  herself  to  the  gossip 
ud  scandal  of  Society  ?  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  stand  forth  a  free 
roman — her  hidden  bonds  and  chains  riven,  her  secret  revealed, 
rith  nothing  in  her  life  to  conceal,  no  further  need  for  plotting 
ind  dissimulation — above  all,  no  further  reason  for  dreading  dis- 
»very,  for  living  with  an  oppressive  sense  of  danger  ever  hanging 
)ver  her  head. 

For  one  moment  the  balance  of  motive  forces  had  hung  evenly 
loised,  but  for  one  moment  only.  Then  a  strong  "  I  dare  not "  had 
eaped  upon  a  weak  "  I  w^ould,"  and  the  brief  indecision  was  over. 

If  during  the  next  few  weeks — very  busy  weeks  they  were — Claudia 
ecalled  that  indecision  at  all,  it  was  to  congratulate  herself  upon 
laving  in  no  way  yielded  to  it. 

As  she  had  told  Madame  Vandeleur,  she  was  about  to  be  married, 
ind  to  be  married  at  once.  On  the  very  evening  of  that  day  where- 
ipon  she  had  accepted  his  hand,  Captain  Awdry — ^after  obtaining  her 
ather's  sanction  to  the  suggestion — had  pressed  Claudia  to  assent 
o  a  very  quiet  but  immediate  marriage,  in  order  that,  upon  his  return 
;o  England,  she  might  go  with  him  as  his  bride.  A  little  startled,  at 
Brst,  by  this  proposal,  Claudia  had,  nevertheless,  soon  been  brought 
to  yield  to  it — and  quite  as  much  because  her  own  inclinatioi\&\ix%td 

VOL.  CCLVIII.      NO.  lS$I,  Y^ 


226  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

acquiescence,  as  because  her  lover's  circumstances  seemed  to  render  it 
advisable. 

The  second  son  of  his  father — who  had  been  married  twice— 
Douglas  Awdry  belonged  to  a  family  which,  wherever  it  had  originally 
sprung  from,  had  been  established  in  Berkshire  for  so  many  genera- 
tions that  it  had  come  to  be  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  oldest,  if  not 
the  very  oldest,  in  the  county.  No  higher  title  than  that  of  Squire 
had,  as  yet,  been  borne  by  any  head  of  the  family — although,  by 
marriage,  much  blue  blood  had  enriched  the  race,  and  although  it  was 
currently  believed  that  a  Baronetcy,  if  not  a  Peerage,  had  been  offered 
to  more  than  one  of  its  representatives.  Whether  this  were  true  or  no, 
it  is  certain  that,  relying  on  their  antiquity  and  wealth,  the  Awdrys 
held  their  heads  very  high,  and  were  wont  to  boast  themselves  in- 
dependent of  such  adventitious  rank,  and  the  ec^uals,  at  all  events, 
of  all  those  whose  handles  to  their  names  were  of  recent  acquirement 

Of  this  family.  Captain  Douglas  Awdry— ex-oflicer  (for  he  had 
now  resigned  his  commission)  of  a  cavalry  regiment  stationed  for 
some  time  in  Quebec — had  lately,  and  very  unexpectedly,  become 
the  chief.  Left  an  orphan  at  an  early  age,  Douglas  had  been  brought 
up  under  the  guardianship  of  a  half-brother,  upon  whom  had  devolved 
the  fine  entailed  estate  of  Clavermere  Chase. 

More  than  twenty  years  Douglas's  senior,  and  a  man  of  very 
studious  and  somewhat  unsocial  habits,  this  last  Squire  Awdry  had 
remained  unmarried  until  quite  late  in  life ;  and  Douglas  himself,  as 
well  as  all  the  friends  and  acquaintances  of  the  family,  had  long 
learned  to  consider  the  reversion  of  the  property  as  secure  to  the 
younger  brother. 

At  the  age  of  forty-five,  however,  Scjuire  Awdry  had  suddenly 
fallen  in  love  with  and  married  a  lady  of  little  more  than  half  his 
age.  Two  boys  had  been  born  of  this  union ;  and  Douglas,  who 
had  gone  out  to  Canada  very  shortly  after  it  had  taken  place,  had 
then,  of  course,  entirely  relinquished  all  idea  of  the  inheritance  which 
he  had  once  looked  upon  as  his  own.  Nevertheless,  it  had  come  to 
him — and  earlier  than,  in  the  course  of  nature,  he  had  ever  had  a 
right  to  expect.  One  letter,  received  about  a  month  before  the 
opening  of  this  story,  had  announced  to  him  the  deaths  of  his  two 
young  nephews  through  the  attack  of  some  contagious  disordifer.  A 
second,  following  by  the  next  post,  had  conveyed  the  intelligence 
that  his  half-brother  (who  had  been  absent  from  home  at  the  time, 
travelling  in  Norway)  had  succumbed  to  the  shock  of  being  informed 
of  this  double  catastrophe  in  a  cruelly  sudden  manner.  For  to  his 
children  the  quiet,  staid  man  had  shown  a  passionate  attachmenti 


The  Unforeseen.  227 

such  as  Douglas,  who  had  never  received  from  him  any  treatment 
but  that  of  cold  severity,  could  scarcely  have  believed  it  to  have  been 
in  his  nature  to  feel 

Now,  had  he  been  nearer,  Captain  Awdry  would,  without  ques« 
tion,  have  repaired  at  once  to  Clavermere  on  receipt  of  these  tidings- 
tidings  which,  in  spite  of  his  personal  gain  through  them,  the  young 
man  sincerely  sorrowed  over,  though,  naturally,  with  a  less  keen 
sorrow  than  would  have  possessed  him  had  his  relations  with  his 
brother  been  more  affectionate.  But,  at  that  date,  communication 
between  America  and  England  was  by  no  means  so  rapid  as  it  has 
since  become,  and,  as  Douglas  knew,  his  brother  must  of  necessity 
be  buried  long  before  he  could  arrive  there.  Seeing,  then,  that  he 
could  not  be  in  time  for  the  funeral,  and  believing  that  the  young 
widow  (whom  he  had  heard  was  overwhelmed  by  her  affliction) 
would  greatly  prefer  not  to  have  her  solitude  intruded  upon  for  a  few 
weeks  by  the  arrival  of  the  new  proprietor,  he  had  decided  not  to 
hurry  his  departure  from  Quebec. 

AVhen,  however,  the  news  had  come  to  him  that  his  sister-in-law 
had  already  vacated  the  Chase,  and  retired  to  a  smaller  estate 
bequeathed  to  her  by  his  brother,  Douglas  had  looked  upon  the 
matter  in  a  different  light.  He  had  then  become  anxious  to  return 
to  England  as  soon  as  possible.  But  he  had  been  equally  anxious  to 
take  with  him  the  wife  he  had  chosen,  and  so  had  agreed  to  put  off 
his  voyage  for  the  six  additional  weeks  which  Miss  Estcourt  had 
declared  to  be  the  shortest  possible  time  in  which  she  could  make 
her  arrangements. 

For,  poor  girl,  she  had  other  arrangements  to  make  than  those 
simple  and  innocent  ones  which  concerned  her  trousseau !  She  had 
that  expedition  to  carry  out  to  the  lonely  farm-house  on  the  Beauport 
Slopes,  and  her  bargain  with  Madame  Vandeleur  to  effect  And  when 
that  matter  had,  as  we  have  seen,  been  brought  to  a  successful  issue, 
there  wa^  another  difficulty  to  face,  viz.,  the  legal  appointment  of  a 
trustee  for  the  little  Claude's  property.  But  that  difficulty,  also,  bad 
been  met  and  overcome — not,  however,  without  the  aid  of  much 
misrepresentation  and  fidsehood 

Ah !  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive. 

And  in  that  falsehood  Miss  Ella  Thome  had  felt  constrained  to 
take  a  conspicuous  part. 

Under  pretence  of  visiting  their  old  school-mistress,  Mrs.  Canu 
pen,  the  two  girls  had  taken  a  trip  to  Montreal^  andbadXJcL^c^  w^a^i^ 


228  Tlu  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

out  a  gentleman  who  was  a  distant  connection  of  Ella's,  and  vdl 
known  to  her  by  repute  as  a  strictly  conscientious  and  honest  man. 
By  profession  this  gentleman  was  an  attorney,  and  after  a  little  trouble, 
and  by  dint  of  an  entire  mis-statement  of  the  case,  he  had  been  induced 
to  accept  the  position  of  tnistee  for  the  ^3,000,  handed  over  to  him 
by  deed  of  gift  in  favour  of  Claude  Stephens  Vandeleur.  He  had,  how- 
ever, insisted  on  having  the  name  of  the  child's  adoptive  lather,  Paiil 
Vandeleur,  and  also  that  of  a  clergyman  in  Boston  (whose  name 
Claudia  could  never  afterwards  recollect)  associated  with  his  own  as 
co-executors,  albeit  that  he  undertook  himself  the  principal  responsi* 
bility  of  finding  an  investment  for  the  property. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  all  these  arrangements  were  not  conducted 
quite  out  of  hand,  and  after  the  return  of  the  young  ladies  to  Quebec,  a 
goo<l  deal  of  correspondence  took  place  under  cover  to  Ella  Thome. 

But,  at  length,  the  business  was  settled,  and  Claudia  Estcourt 
began  to  breathe  freely — more  freely  than  she  had  done  for  years. 

Now,  she  fancied,  she  had  taken  a  sponge  and  wiped  out  the  his- 
tory of  the  ])ast.  She  had  made  a  tabula  rasa  of  her  old  life;  "Out 
of  the  nettle  danger  "  she  had,  at  last,  "  plucked  the  flower  safety." 
Her  husband  was  dead,  her  child  finally  disposed  of.  Now  she  would 
cast  the  recollection  of  that  dreadful  mistake  of  her  girlhood  wholly 
away  from  her,  and  enter  ui)on  her  new  existence  unfi^tted  by  fear  or 
anxiety  on  its  account.  Henceforth,  too,  she  resolved  she  would  keep 
her  conscience  void  of  such  oft'enccs  as  had  stained  it  through  these 
bygone  years ;  she  would  cultivate,  in  word  and  action,  the  most 
perfect  truth  and  candour.  Although  obliged  to  keep  her  promised 
husband  in  ignorance  of  events  that  had  preceded  their  marriage,  she 
would  be  open  with  him  as  the  day  as  to  all  that  should  occur  after 
it.  Thus  compounding  for  transgressions  of  the  past  with  resolutions 
of  virtue  for  the  future,  Claudia  hoped  and  believed  that  all  would 
be  well  with  her.  She  had  yet  to  learn,  poor  child,  that  a  logical 
necessity  presides  over  the  sequence  of  events  in  the  moral  world,  as 
well  as  in  the  physical.  That  as  surely  as  law  governs  the  succession 
of  visible  phenomena,  that  all  cause  must  have  an  effect,  so  in  the 
less  tangible  realms  of  human  thought  and  conduct,  law  is  likewise 
supreme,  and  no  deed,  once  done,  can  escape  inevitable  conse- 
quences— although  those  consequences  may  be  of  a  nature  impossible 
to  predict  with  any  assurance. 

Meanwhile,  however,  gathering  courage  from  her  past  immunity 
from  detection,  and  full  of  blind  confidence  in  those  measures  she 
had  taken — as  at  the  same  time  relieving  her  sense  of  obligation  to 
the  child  and  shielding  her  from  all  future  trouble  on  his  account-— 


The  Unforeseen.  ^^^m 

1,  we  repeat,  had  resolved  to  cast  her  fears  to  the  winds,  and 
in  a  great  measure  she  had  succeeded  in  doing  so.  The  weddirg- 
ciay  drew  on  apace,  and  each  hour  that  intervened  seemed  to  bring 
some  fresh  augury  of  future  happiness,  to  paint  the  horizon  of  her 
new  life  with  ever  brighter  tints.  Heart  and  fancy  aUkc  enthralled 
ty  the  handsome  manly  lover,  who,  day  by  day,  appeared  to  grow 
tKite  devoted,  more  passionately  attached  to  her,  the  girl  basked  and 
smned  herself  in  this  warm  glow  of  affection,  striving  to  feel  satisfied 
thai  no  chill  of  disappointment  or  misery  could  ever  surprise  her. 
As  for  Douglas  Awdry,  he,  indeed,  trod,  diu-ing  these  few  weeks  of 
niiiag  for  her,  upon  enchanted  ground.  And  when  at  length  his 
girlish  bride  stood  by  his  side  at  the  altar,  the  fairest  and  sweetest 
piciure  his  eyes  had  ever  rested  on,  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  that 
lift  had  no  further  bliss  to  bestow,  that  the  summum  bonum  of 
tiislencc  was  already  his.  As  had  been  arranged,  the  wedding  was 
a  very  quiet  one,  although,  owing  to  the  fact  that  both  Captain 
A«diy  and  Miss  Estcourt  were  conspicuous  figures  in  Quebec 
s«ie;y,  it  had  been  difficult  to  keep  it  so.  Ella  Thome  remained 
•ilh  her  old  school  friend  until  after  the  ceremony,  in  which  she 
figured  as  sole  bridesmaid,  and  on  the  following  day  relumed  to  her 
home  in  Kingston.  The  bride  and  bridegroom  embarked  directly 
iftec  ibeir  raairiage  for  England  ;  and  if  the  voyage  across  the 
Adaatic  could  have  been  taken  as  protypifying  their  voyage  together 
■lifough  life,  the  latter  would  indeed  have  proved  a  serene  and 
delightful  one.  Never  within  his  memory,  as  the  captain  declared, 
•sd  he  made  a  more  favourable  or  rapid  passage,  or  known  a  spell  of 
such  mild  and  delicious  weather.  Scarcely  a  ripple  disturbed  the 
"^nquillity  of  the  sun-lit  waves  upon  which  the  married  lovers  gazed 
'^J'  by  day,  feeling  as  though  they  were  floating,  in  truth,  upon  a 
"'^gic  ocean  of  bliss.  To  have  realised  how  those  placid  waters 
"ould  look  under  another  aspect,  darkened  by  storm  and  lashed  into 
"'rciiening  fury,  into  devouring  rage,  would  have  been  almost  as 
•"'fiicult  after  those  weeks  of  continuous  serenity,  as  to  have  imagined 
"leirown  lives  broken  upon  by  disquieting  doubt,  or  wrecked  by  a 
'Cttpest  of  passion  and  pain. 

Several  times  during  the  weeks  of  his  daughter's  brief  engagement 
"^.  Estcoutt  had  hinted  at  a  probability  that  he  would  very  shortly 
6'*e  up  his  house  and  his  business  in  Canada  and  come  to  reside  in 
^-'Midon,  in  order  tliat  he  might  be  near  to  the  beloved  and  only 
^nild,  whom  he  had  given,  with  somewhat  inexplicable  readiness, 
^'Q  the  hands  of  another.  Not,  however,  he  had  explained,  that  he 
^tended,  as  yel,  wholly  to  relinquish  his  connection  with  commerce. 


.  f^ 


Z".  hit;.-  -:  '.:zr.:i'i  z^  i=i=-i:-  ::  ±e  «Zih>.bafIding  concern,  in 
■wiiLT.  -  T-:'.  :»t  •i.iiii.'nj'S'ri  -c  zjui  1  p.ir=)crs£ip,  on  the  banks  of 


'^-:  vi  -iri-u-:-  V:.:.:  t-s  ;r  17^;  f:r  gr«a:  wealth,  Douglas 
At—;-  1^1  -'z.-  ijrr-^i-'^:  t^o;  115  rrrTii^sei  firher -in-law,  who  was 
r.rv  :::-::::..:^  -  ^  :_:Z'i'L:  /ti.-.  ic.czld  rhzs  j^rsist  in  keeping 
I-j=j.i_:"  nLl  -  i^-Ti<?.  •^■:;-  szt-It  ±ir»  cocid  bpe  no  occasion  for 
n.  A  =•:.  It  :ai  ::.:  r"_l  :z:ri  ?^r-5ei  br  the  manner  in  which 
2^.T  I-::.-  -J.;  rr^.ri  v.;  =iner  ::  sertlements.  In  return  for 
z-i  :■-  ■  zr-  ..':^n.  rr:-.:::-  ::r  his  wife,  that  gentleman  had 
tt:-  f:  ■  "  ?  ii::*.!.-  1  ::tt7  ::"  ^"rr.rrc.  E.:  he  had  stipulated 
»-.v.  I  :  .J  ^5  ::  -^z  i  .:  : .  zz  jz'Jii  zz-zrsa  c:  irzr  years,  ^^5.000  at  a 
tine,  i-.i  -=  >,>:  : .:  :5  j^.-zie:::  ::  the  nrs:  ^5.000  until  three 
^z-.Z'i  ifztT  :"■:  ~r:i  r.j-ii-..  Kirirr  so  Lirgea  fortune  of  his  own, 
ir.t  •  :--^  m^r.  h^i  ;T--;<i*i  h:n:^e*.f  15  r<r:cx:!v  content  with  this 
2!Tir^::n=r.:.  il:>. : .-'..  :.:  :>..  5*1=  e  zne,  he  hid  certainly  wondered 

;ii  so  tTe^:.  ±a:  he  would  gladly  have 


l^z 


.    •    ^ 


■sn 


nirr"-.!  htr  ':.j.i  ^r.t  r.::  :  :<ie<>^d  a  rer^y.  She  was  not,  howe^-er, 
he  kr.f»-    :r  b-j'ievii  he  iii  ,  il::i:e:her  p-enniless  even  on  the  day  of 

the  mirrjjL-.  F:r.  is  h-.:  uther  hid  infDrraed  hxm,  she  had  a  little 
for.ur.e  o:';^5.:::  :- v«:e :  :r.  2  Canadian  bank,  which  fortune 
Douglis  had  -.r.^istei  en  ha\inz  settled  upon  herself,  with  such 
legalities  15  were  neces5ar>-  before  the  passing  of  the  Woman's 
Property  Act  All  these  mercenar\-  matters,  howbeit,  had  been 
discussed  ar.d  arranged  by  the  two  gentlemen  between  themselves, 
and  Claudia  was  not  even  aware  that  her  husband  knew  of  the 
legacy  bequeathed  to  her  by  her  uncle. 


Chapter  XIII. 

MADAME   CAINS   THE   DAY. 

A  PAIR  of  small  heads — one  covered  with  a  thick  mass  of  flaxen 
curls,  the  other  curly  too,  but  dark  as  night — nestled  side  by  side  on 
the  same  pillow,  and  a  pair  of  bright,  clean  washen  little  faces  looked 
eagerly  up  into  one  that  was  bending  over  them.  Madame  Vande- 
Icur  had  just  finished  putting  her  two  children  to  bed  It  was, 
l)cTh:ips,  a  little  earlier  than  she  was  accustomed  to  perform  that 
<luty,  for  the  light  of  the  summer  evening  had  not  yet  begun  to  fade, 
only  to  mellow,  and  the  golden  glory  of  sunset  was  still  in  prospect ; 
but  the  f:hildren  had  not  minded  the  earliness  of  the  hour  because 
the  process  of  bathing  and  undressing  had  been  enlivened  by  what 


The  Unforeseen. 

Rtle  folks  of  every  nation  and  clime  under  the  sun  so  dearly  love— ; 
to  irit,  a  tale. 

A  very  entrancing  tale  this  had  proved,  and  the  eyes  of  both 

Edren  had  grown  large  and  round  with  interest  as  they  listened. 
The  subject  had  been  rather  a  curious  one,  and  the  story  had  had 
lis  heroes  t«'0  small  boys  just  the  ages  of  Claude  and  Louis. 
se  boys,  it  appeared,  had  changed  names  with  each  other,  and 
through  tiiat  change  both  had  reaped  some  most  wonderful  and 
sunling  benefits  bestowed  upon  them  by  fairies.  The  delightful 
things  [hat  had  happened  to  them,  however,  had  only  happened  a 
long,  long  lime  after  they  had  thus  changed  names ;  and  they  would 
BOliajehappenedat  all  (this  Marie  had  been  very  particular  in  impres- 
■ngupon  her  young  auditors)  if  the  little  boys  had  ever  forgotten, 
after  they  had  once  begun  it,  to  call  each  other  by  the  wrong  names. 
"Andmaywe  really  [ryit,  mymotlier,  Claude  and  I  ?"  demanded 
knis  in  an  awed  whisper — (a  suggestion  to  that  effect  having  eraa- 
laied  pbyfiilly  from  the  little  woman  on  the  conclusion  of  her  tale>— 
"miy  we  really  try  it,  and  see  if  the  fairies  will  bring  us  flying  ponies 
Mdbiigs  of  bon-bons?    Oh,  do  permit  us  !  " 

"Yes,  you  shall  try  it,  my  Louis,"  assented  his  mother,  "but  not 
cDiii  after  you  leave  the  house  of  Grand-ptre.  You  must  not  begin 
liil  I  tell  you  that  it  is  time  ;  and  then,  you  know,  you  must  never, 
never  forget  that  you  are  Claude  and  he  is  Louis.  But  to-morrow 
J  Til!  tell  you  the  tale  again.  And  now,  mes  enfants,  good-night. 
Sleep  well,  and  may  holy  angels  guard  your  bed  !  " 

Breathing  that  pious  prayer,  Madame  Vandeleur  bestowed  a 
Werfly  kiss  on  the  chubby  cheek  of  the  dark-haired  little  fellow, 
■""d  3  warmer,  more  lingering  salute  on  that  of  his  bedfellow.  Then 
'i«ilting  the  large,  loft-like  chamber,  she  descended  a  short  flight  of 
"^now  and  very  creaking  stairs,  and  entered  the  living-room  or 
^niled  kitchen  and  sitting-room  of  the  farm.  The  only  occupants, 
"t  present,  of  this  latter  apartment  were  her  father  and  his  nephew, 
^'srie's  cousin,  the  one  smoking  a  pipe  in  morose  silence,  the  other 
*«ittliDg  aimlessly  a  piece  of  wood. 

"Eh  bien,  mon  pfere,  you  are  enjoying  your  pipe?"  observed 
^adame  cheerfully.     "  But  where  then  is  my  husband  ?  " 

"  Gone  outside  like  a  sulky  hound,"  growled  her  father,  removing 
**•»  pipe  for  a  moment,  but  avoiding  his  daughter's  eye.  "  I  have 
"*en  telling  him — and  by  my  soul  it  is  true — that  people  may  out- 
**ay  their  welcome.  Figure  to  yourself  a  whole  family  dropping 
"pen  a  poor  man  like  a  swarm  of  locusts,  and  eating  up  his  substance 
*0t  a  month  at  a  time  !     Mon  Dieu,  it  is  unreasonable  \ " 


i 


232  TIu  Gentlcntan^s  Magazine. 

Madame  Vandeleur  laughed. 

'<  You  are  right,  my  father,  it  is  um^asonable,"  she  assented ;  "but 
compose  yourself,  we  shall  be  gone  now,  au  plus  vlte  possible— even 
to-morrow.  I  will  go  and  consult  with  Paul  on  the  subject  And, 
listen,  it  is  the  last  time  we  shall  trespass  on  your  hospitalitj,  any  of 
us,  I  promise  it !" 

''Nay,  nay,  I  meant  not  that,"  began  the  old  man;  ''for  a  £ev 
days." 

"  But  /  mean  it,  my  good  father,  I  mean  it,  and  with  good 
reason.  Au  revoir  ! ''  And  nodding  her  head,  Marie  laughed  again, 
very  pleasantly,  and  passed  from  the  house. 

She  found  her  husband  seated  in  a  dejected  attitude  on  the  low 
parapet  of  the  well  which  Ella  Thome  had  chosen  as  a  resting  place, 
when,  nearly  a  fortnight  ago  now,  she  had  come  hither  in  company 
with  Mademoiselle  Estcourt,  "  that  charming  young  fool,"  upon  whom 
Marie  was  in  the  habit  of  bestowing  hourly,  though  somewhat  con- 
temptuous, benisons. 

Hearing  her  approach,  Paul  turned  round  with  an  ejaculation  of 
satisfaction.  *'  Ah  !  there  you  are,  my  wife  !  I  was  in  expectation  yon 
might  come  out  here.    I  wish  much  to  speak  with  thee." 

"  And  I,  likewise,  wish  to  speak  with  thee,  Paul,"  rejoined  his 
wife,  smiling  upon  the  good-humoured  young  giant,  whose  fair  hair  and 
clear  complexion  made  him  look  so  much  more  like  a  Saxon  than  a 
French  Canadian.  "  I  have  something  of  much  importance  to  say 
to  thee.  But  come  with  me  to  the  wood,  yonder.  Let  us  sit  and 
talk  where  we  used  to  do  when  thou  didst  come  hither  to  practise 
thy  wooing,  my  beloved." 

**  Ah,  those  were  happy  days,  were  they  not?"  returned  Paul, 
pressing  against  his  side  the  hand  which  his  diminutive  spouse  had 
passed  within  his  arm.  "  Very  happy  days.  Though  even  then,  my 
angel,"  he  added,  with  a  little  hesitation,  '*  thou  wert  something  of 
a  tyrant" 

"  Was  I  ?  Chut,  chut,  my  Paul  I "  She  patted  his  arm  and 
laughed — (the  little  woman's  laugh  came  very  readily  at  present). 
"  I  am  never  a  tyrant  to  thee  excepting  for  thine  own  good.  But 
tell  me,  now,  what  is  it  thou  dost  wish  to  say  ?  " 

"  It  is  simply  that  I  want  to  ask  when  we  may  take  our  departure 
from  here  " — began  her  husband  anxiously.  "  That  strange  business 
about  that  little  Claude,  it  is  all  settled  now.  Wherefore,  then,  must 
we  still  delay  our  return  home?  " 

"  We  will  not  delay  it  any  longer.  AUons !  mon  ami,  cheer  up  I 
I  knew  it  was  this  that  was  troubling  thee.    And  I  know,  be8ide% 


The  Unforeseen.  233 

what  my  father  has  been  saying  to  thee — though  thou  art  so  con- 
siderate that  thou  dost  not  like  to  repeat  it  to  me.  Ciel,  Paul,  thy 
nature  is  as  delicate  and  tender  as  a  girl's !  But  here  is  my 
arm-chair ! " 

Madame  Vandeleur  seated  herself,  as  she  spoke,  between  the 
forked  branches  of  an  ancient  tree,  which  separated  conveniently 
near  the  roots  and  offered  comfortable  support  for  one.  Her  hus- 
band threw  himself  on  the  ground  at  her  feet. 

**  It  is  true,"  he  admitted,  "  that  M.  Gireaud  has  been  a  little  ill- 
natured  about  our  staying  here  so  long  ;  and  I  was  afraid  that  it 
might  disturb  thee  to  mention  it.  But  since  we  are  to  leave  at  once, 
he  will  doubtless  be  more  amiable.  And,  ah,  how  glad  I  am !  How 
charming  it  will  be  to  find  ourselves  once  more  at  home." 

"  But,  Paul,  my  cherished  one " — Madame  passed  her  fingers 
caressingly  through  his  crisp  yellow  locks — "  is  it  not  always  home 
to  thee  wherever  thy  wife  and  thy  child — children  I  should  now  say — 
may  happen  to  be  ?  " 

"  Truly,  yes.  But  ..."  He  glanced  up  at  her  in  swift  alarm. 
"But  our  farm,  Marie — the  comfortable  house  I  built  for  thee, 
and  where  we  have  lived  together  so  many  years — that  is  our 
home  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  our  home,  true ;  but  happily,  my  beloved,  it  will 
be  so  no  longer.  Why,  surely,  Paul,  thou  couldst  not  dream,  with 
our  altered  fortunes,  still  to  bury  thy  family  in  that  sad,  that  solitary, 
that  barbarous  spot?    Fi  done  !  Fi  done  1" 

Paul  dropped  his  head  and  made  no  reply.  The  blow  which  he 
had  been  secretly  dreading  ever  since  the  fact  of  their  wealth  had 
been  announced  to  him — (that  wealth  which  seemed  to  the  simple 
fellow  so  great,  and  which  had  been  bestowed  for  reasons  so  inex- 
plicable— so  inadequate  to  the  service  required  in  return — that,  as 
yet  he  could  only  regard  its  possession  with  vague  uneasiness) — that 
blow  had  now  fallen. 

•*Dost  thou  not  know,  Paul,  how  I  have  detested  those  six 
dreary  years,  shut  in  there  out  of  the  world,  along  with  a  handful  of 
stupid  ignorant  people,  with  no  more  sense  in  their  heads  than  the 
oxen  or  the  pigs  ? " 

"  But,  my  Marie,  the  good  neighbours,  they  have  served  and 
obeyed  thee  like  children,"  remonstrated  her  husband  "  And  thou 
didst  not  seem  to  hate  them  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  hate  them  now^  if  I  lived  with  them,"  she  answered. 
**  But  leave  that ....  Thou  knewest,  at  any  rate,  my  Paul,  that  I 
suffer  much  from  the  cold — that,  being  fragile,  I  require  a  sutvn^ 


234  ^-^  GentlemafCs  Magazine. 

climate.  AVhy,  then,  hast  thou  not  already  said  to  me — *  Marie^  ne 
are  now  rich,  we  can  live  where  we  will — let  us  go  to  some  wanner 
country  where  thy  health  will  be  better  ? '  Ah !  Paul,  Paul,  I  fear 
that,  after  all,  thou  art  a  selfish  man — that  thou  hast  no  affection,  no 
consideration,  for  thy  wife  I  " 

At  this  accusation  poor  Paul  blushed  crimson,  and  looked  as 
confused  as  though  really  guilty  of  the  charge  brought  against  him. 
"Selfish?"  he  repeated,  "I  did  not  think— I  do  not  wish  to  be 
selfish." 

Marie  patted  his  head  again.  "  It  is  only  that  thou  dost  not 
think,  my  Paul.  No,  no,  I  will  not  believe  thee  selfish  or  unkind, 
only  a  little  thouglitless  and  a  little  stupid.  But  now  that  thou 
understandest  what  I  wish,  thou  wilt  yield  ;   is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  But,  as  yet,  I  do  not  quite  understand,"  he  faltered.  "  Is  it 
that  you  desire  to  leave  altogether  our  old  home  ?  To  go  back  there 
no  more  ?  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  we  will  go  back  for  a  few  days,"  rejoined  Marie,  in  a 
tone  of  amiable  concession,  "  for  a  week,  or  even  a  fortnight,  if 
necessary.  There  will  be  the  house  and  farm  to  sell,  and  disposition 
to  make  of  all  our  belongings.  But  I  have  a  capital  idea,  my  Paul," 
she  continued  cheerfully.  "  Thou  knowest  Jules  Lecroix  is  going  to 
marry  in  the  autumn.  We  will  let  him  have  our  house  for  as  much 
as  he  can  afford  to  pay.  It  will  be  an  excellent  arrangement  both 
for  him  and  for  us,  will  it  not  ?  " 

Paul  gave  vent  to  a  stilled  groan,  which  his  wife  professed  to 
consider  an  afiinnative. 

"  And  then  we  will  go  forth  together,"  she  resumed,  "  and  see  the 
world !  Ah,  Paul,  a  little  while  ago  thou  didst  talk  of  happy  days, 
but  our  hap])y  days  have  yet  to  come.  And,  my  husband,  I  must 
teach  thee  ambition.  It  is  true  that  we  are  now  rich  ;  but  we  must 
grow  richer.  Is  it  not  in  the  Holy  Scripture  that  one  ought  to  trade 
with  one's  talents  and  make  them  ten  times  so  many  ?  Therefore, 
my  Paul,  we  will  go  to  a  place  where  great  fortunes  are  to  be  made, 
and  our  money  shall  grow  two,  three,  four  times  as  much !  I  know 
not  yet  hoiv,  it  is  true,  but  that  I  shall  discover  when  we  arrive. 
Paul,  we  will  j;o  to  London— to  England." 

"To  I'^.ngland!"  he  echoed,  aghast.  "But  we  know  not  the 
language  !  '* 

•♦  Wo  shall  Uiirn  the  language,  mon  ami— and  there  are  many 
people  there  who  understaml  our  own.     That  I  have  ascertained" 

"  But  .  .  Oh,  Marie  !    Consider— reflect !     It  is  terrible  ...  a 

forci^ii  country  1 " 

•*  J'nul,  thou  art,  in  truth,  a  coward ! "  exclaimed  his  wife  dis- 


The  Unforeseen.  235 

dainfully.  ''  Thou  should'st  have  been  bom  a  woman,  and  I  a  man. 
I  have  twice  thy  brain,  and  ten  times  thy  spirit !  " 

**  It  is  true — perfectly  true  that  thou  art  wiser  and  cleverer  than  I, 
my  Marie.     Have  I  not  always  acknowledged  it  ?    But " 

"  Then  confide  thyself  to  my  guidance,  Paul,"  she  interposed 
gently  but  finnly.  "  Let  me  do  what  I  think  best,  and  I  engage  that 
thou  shalt  very  shortly  say — ^as  thou  hast  often  said  before — *  Thy 
way  is  the  best  way.' " 

Paul  sighed.  Whether  his  wife's  way  was  the  best  way  or  not,  he 
knew  that,  in  the  end,  she  must  have  it  Moreover,  he  did  place 
very  great,  almost  implicit,  reliance  upon  her  judgment  And  again, 
that  suggestion  that  she  had  made  about  his  being ''  selfish "  had 
disturbed  his  simple  soul  with  doubt  Perhaps  he  was  selfish  to 
dread  these  proposed  changes  in  his  life — to  care  so  much  for  his 
old  home  and  his  old  neighbours.  He  gulped  down  something  that 
rose  in  his  throat,  and  in  rather  a  shaky  voice  observed, 

"  Eh,  bien,  my  wife — be  it  as  you  wish." 

**  Thou  good  Paul !  Thou  best  of  husbands  I  Let  me  kiss  thee ! 
And,  now,  there  is  something  else — one  more  little  matter  which  we 
have  to  discuss  together." 

"  Yes?  "  said  Paul  interrogatively. 

"  It  is  about  the  children" — Madame  paused  for  a  second  or  two, 
as  if  considering  how  to  introduce  her  subject  "  Those  children,  Paul. 
Attend  now.     They  are  both  ours,  one  as  much  as  the  other." 

"  Yes  ?  "  put  in  Paul  again. 

"  We  have  adopted  the  little  Claude— :/^r  now  and  always.  We 
have  promised,  thou  and  I,  to  be  his  father  and  mother,  and  he,  for 
his  part,  will  very  soon  forget,  being  but  a  baby,  that  he  ever  called 
any  other  *  papa.'  We  must  help  him  to  forget  it,  my  Paul,  and  we 
must  behave  to  him  precisely  as  if  he  were  our  own  offspring — thou 
understandest?" 

**Yes,  yes.  It  will  be  a  little  difficult,  perhaps,  because  one 
naturally  inclines  to  cherish  most  one  own's  flesh  and  blood.  But 
thou  art  very  good,  my  angel,  to  desire  it,  and  we  will  try  to  treat  the 
poor  little  orphan  as  truly  our  own.  We  will  make  no  favourite  of 
our  Louis." 

"  Only  inasmuch  as  he  is  the  elder,"  amended  Marie.  "  What  we 
want  to  do,  my  beloved,  is  to  h^just  to  both." 

"  Mais,  oui,  justice  is  an  excellent  thing.   But  how  meanest  thou  ?  " 

''  I  mean  this,"  she  replied,  speaking  slowly  and  emphatically : 
"  It  would  not  be  justice,  Paul,  that  one  of  our  children,  and  the 
younger,  should  have  advantage  over  the  elder.  It  would  be  well  for 
them  to  share  alike,  but  if  one  must  have  a  \ax%eitoT\Mti^  ^Ocosl  ^^ 


236  The  Genllimans  Ma^azim£. 

other,  then  it  ouf;hi  to  Le  the  first -born.     TLit  is  wfeat  reascniiid 
just  1*^0  ^Icmanfl.' 

"  Tiut  I  do  not  comprehend."  rejoined  her  hcsband,  looking  up 
with  a  i>u//]ed  air.     **  We  cannot  help  i:  that  the  Ifnie  Clacde  shoold 

have,  when  he  !-» twenty-one \\x,  yes  :  "*     His  brow  smoothed 

itself  siuldenly.  *'  Now  I  understand  :  That  is  why  thou  dost  dealt 
to  K'>  t'j  Kn;;lancl,  and  that  we  shoi;lJ  endeavour  to  mike  o^zx  mooef 
Uu  re.i  .c.     It  is  that  thou  wi>l.e-t  to  leave  the  two  boys  equal?    Wdl, 

]>rrhaf>s  you  are  ri^ht,  my  wife But  3:iII,  with  iCyOco  dollars 

if  we  keej)  that  for  liim,  our  Louis  would  surely  be  sufficiently  rich?" 

"  No,  that  is  ///'/  wliat  I  mean.  Thy  mind  is  so  dull,  Paul,  that 
I  iiiiist  s])<'ak  out  ]>lainly.  The  10.000  dollars  that  are  ours,  we  hate 
in  live  upon  for  a  time,  and  j>ussihly,  in  striving  to  make  them  more, 
we  may  /osr  some  of  them."  (Madame  Vandcleur  had  no  intention 
of  permitting  a  farthing  of  their  jirecious  bequest  to  be  lost,  but  she 
liad  still  less  interition  of  explaining  to  her  husband  the  deeper 
motives  whit  h  had  impelled  her  to  the  singular  design  she  had 
formed.)  *'  'rheref«)re,  it  is  my  i»ur])0se  to  secure  to  our  own  bey — 
our  ^'/^/t^^/  lioy,  I  mean — that  15,000  dollars  which  we  shall  have  no 
p(AV(T,  Paul,  thou  or  I,  to  touch  or  to  waste." 

"  Comment?  "  he  ejaculated, ga/ing  at  her  in  distressed  bewilder- 
ment.    *•  r»ut  that     it  belongs  to  C-laude  I'' 

*'  Tree  isely.  An<l  Claude  shall  inherit  it.  But  I  mean  to  turn 
Louis  into  Claude,  and  Claude  into  Louis." 

*'  H(»ly  X'irgin  !  "  'J'he  simple  fellow's  eyes  opened  wider  than 
lu'foie,  an<l  he  stared  at  his  wife  with  something  like  terror  in  them. 
Was  she  <  laiuiiiig  to  he  a  wit(  h — a  sorceress? 

Madame  hurst  out  laughing.  ^*  Paul,  Paul,  what  an  innocent 
thou  ait  !  We  shall  merely  cliange  the  //<////f J  of  the  children.  There 
will  l>r  no  magic  about  the  matter,  thou  goose !  We  go,  recollect,  to 
a  \uw  t  otmtry  when-  no  one  knows  us.  There  Louis  will  be  aliK'ays 
Claude-  (  Luule  Stephens  Vandeleur ;  and  to  him  necessarily  (for  he, 
als<»,  will  have  forgotten  the  name  of  his  first  years),  the  15,000 
dollars  will  he  j»aid  when  the  projjcr  lime  arrives.  ^Vi^a' dost  thou 
comprehend  what  I  mean  ?  " 

I'A'idently  he  did.  His  expression  of  bewildered  alarm  had, 
wliilst  she  had  been  speaking,  gradually  given  i>lacc  to  one  of  mingled 
pain,  dismay,  and  indignation. 

"  But  it  is  a  wickedness  !   It  is  a  crime  !  "  he  exclaimed,  lifting  both 

hands  with  a  shocked  gesture.     **  Thou  canst  not  surely  meditate  so 

great  a  wrong,  firic  I    Ah  !  say  it  is  a  joke  I    It  is  a  joke,  is  it  not?  " 

*'  What  I  have  said,  my  husband,  it  is  my  settled  purpose  to 

accomplish,"  was  the  calm  reply. 


The  Unforeseen.  237 

Paul  drew  himself  away  from  her  a  foot  or  two,  and  his  honest, 
kindly  face  took  a  dogged  air. 

"  It  shall  not  be ! "  he  protested,  firmly.  "  I  will  defeat  thy 
purpose." 

"  Bon  ! "  This  interjection  was  the  sole  comment  Madame 
Vandeleur  vouchsafed  to  his  contumacious  utterance ;  but  the  tone 
in  which  it  was  spoken  made  Paul's  flesh  creep,  as  though  a  sudden 
chill  had  come  into  the  balmy  evening  air. 

Nevertheless,  he  reiterated  his  words  stoutly.  "  No,  it  shall  not 
be!" 

This  time  his  wife  said  nothing,  and  for  nearly  five  minutes  a 
complete  silence  reigned  between  the  pair. 

To  Paul  that  silence,  as  it  continued,  grew  terrible,  by  reason 
of  a  strange  sensation  that  possessed  him,  and  that,  with  each 
second,  became  more  potent  and  oppressive.  He  had  turned  his 
head  away  from  his  companion,  but  he  felt  that  her  eyes  were  upon 
him.  He  felt  that  she  wished  him  to  look  at  her,  and  he  was  con- 
scious of  resisting  her  will  with  ever-increasing  difficulty,  with  an 
effort  which,  in  the  end,  caused  large  drops  of  perspiration  to  start 
from  his  brow.  And,  at  length — explain  the  matter  as  one  may,  as 
electro-biology,  odylic  force,  magnetism  or  mesmerism — some  power 
which  Paul  Vandeleur  could  no  longer  withstand,  drew  his  gaze  to 
his  wife's  face.  And  once  having  looked  at  her,  the  poor  fellow 
remained,  as  though  fascinated,  unable  to  look  away  again. 

At  all  times  pale,  Marie's  complexion  had  turned  to  a  whiteness 
almost  like  that  of  a  corpse.  In  her  eyes,  however,  which  were 
glowing  like  living  coals,  there  was  life  and  energy  enough  to  have 
supplied  ten  ordinary  women.  As  those  eyes  now  gazed  down  into 
his,  Paul  quailed,  as  the  lion  quails  before  its  tamer. 

Once,  and  only  once,  before  had  he  attempted  to  rebel  against 
Marie's  indomitable  will,  and  on  that  occasion  a  transformation 
something  similar — though  not  equal  in  its  formidable  effect  to  this — 
had  passed  over  the  little  woman's  aspect  His  breezy,  cheerful  and 
ordinarily  affectionate  wife  had  turned  into  the  Gorgon  Medusa. 
Not,  however,  that  Paul  instituted  this  comparison—  seeing  that  he 
had  never  heard  of  the  serpent-haired  maiden — bnt  unquestionably 
he  felt  his  heart  sink  within  him,  as  though  from  living  flesh  it  had 
become  a  dead  stone.  And  this  change — this  terrible  change  in  his 
wife  would  continue,  he  felt  implicitly  convinced  of  it,  until  he  should 
be  conquered — until  his  will  had  been  yielded  to  heis.  What  was 
he  to  do?  The  poor  fellow  loved  peace ;  also,  he  loved  his  wife — 
although,  at  the  present  moment,  he  shrank  from  her  viitK  ^.  l^^\Si% 
rather  akin  to  hate  than  love.    But  sigaitv,  on  tici^  o>2ci^  V^xA^Va. 


238  Tlu  Gentlematts  Magazine. 

loved  justice  ;  he  feared  God ;  he  owned  a  conscience.  How  was 
he  to  reconcile  these  conflicting  forces — these  impulses  that  tore  him 
this  way  and  that  ?  The  desire  within  himself  that  leaned  towards 
righteousness — the  imperious  power  outside  of  himself  that  impelled 
towards  wrong-doing?    What  was  he  to  do? 

A  solution  of  the  difficulty — which  affected  him  as  a  reprieve 
from  execution  might  affect  a  condemned  criminal — presently 
occurred  to  him,  Paul  Vandeleur  resolved  to  temporise.  For  the 
present  he  would  pretend  to  give  way,  because,  as  he  had  happily 
reflected,  giving  way  for  the  present  could  do  no  harm !  Why  had  he 
not  thought  of  that  before  ?  Why,  before  either  of  the  boys  could  gain 
possession  of  the  fifteen  thousand  dollars,  eighteen  years  must  pass ! 
For  eighteen  long  years  he  might  suffer  Marie  to  have  her  way — and 
so  secure  peace  to  himself,  and  yet  there  would  be  no  wrong  done! 
Let  his  wife  carry  out  this  singular  freak  of  hers.  Let  her  change 
the  children's  names,  for  the  present,  if  she  would.  But  when  the  time 
arrived  when  that  freak  might  lead  to  evil — then  Paul  registered  a  vow 
with  himself— ///tv;  he  would  rise  up  and  prevent  it  Yes,  he  would 
die  rather  than  permit  his  orphan  charge  to  be  robbed  of  his  rights ! 
But,  in  the  mean  time,  what  a  relief  it  was  that  he  could  gain  peace^ 
though  not  "  peace  with  honour  "—of  this  he  was  sadly  conscious — by 
the  artifice  on  which  he  had  determined !  Whether,  as  she  looked  down 
into  her  husband's  eyes,  Madame  Vandeleur  read  all  his  thoughts  or 
not,  she  at  all  events  perceived  that  for  the  time  being  she  had  gained 
a  victory,  and  accomplished  her  ends.  As  a  tide  of  crimson  colour 
(called  up  by  various  emotions)  mounted  to  Paul's  brow  and  spread 
over  his  sinewy  neck,  the  Gorgon-like  expression  melted  slowly  out 
of  his  wife's  countenance,  and  a  smile  of  satisfaction  and  reconciliation 
took  its  place.  But  the  wise  little  woman  forbore  to  express  any 
triumph  either  by  word  or  look.  She  did  not  even  demand  from  her 
husband  any  verbal  expression  of  his  submission.  In  a  sofl  voice  she 
called  his  attention  to  the  beauty  of  the  sunset  flooding  the  western 
sky  with  a  golden  radiance,  such  as  one  could  fancy,  she  reraarkedi 
might  be  reflected  from  the  city  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  that  the  good 
cur^  had  preached  about  on  the  last  Sunday  before  they  had  left 
home.  Then,  aying  no  attention  to  the  fact  that  Paul  had  made 
no  response  to  her  observation,  she  watched  on  in  silence  until  the 
amber  refulgence  had  turned  into  a  grey  opaqueness.  Whereupon, 
rising  and  extending  her  hand  to  him  with  sovereign  benignity,  she 
suggested,  "  Now  let  us  return  to  the  house,  my  cherished  one,  and 
announce  to  my  father  that  we  shall  leave  him  on  the  morrow." 

(To  be  continued.) 


239 


THE 
LIMITS  OF  MILITARY  DUTY. 


IT  must  needs  be  that  new  questions  arise,  or  old  perplexities  in 
a  fresh  form ;  and  of  these  one  that  has  risen  again  in  our  time 
is  this :  Does  any  moral  stain  attach  to  bloodshed  committed  upon 
the  battlefield  ?  Or  is  the  difference  between  military  and  ordinary 
homicide  a  real  one,  and  does  the  plea  of  duty  sanction  any  act,  how- 
ever atrocious  in  the  abstract,  provided  it  be  committed  imder  the 
uniform  of  the  State  ? 

The  general  opinion  is,  of  course,  that  no  soldier  in  his  military 
capacity  can  be  guilty  of  murder ;  but  opinion  has  not  always  been 
so  fixed,  and  it  is  worth  noticing  that  in  the  forms  of  civilisation  that 
preceded  our  own,  and  in  some  existing  modem  races  of  lower  type 
than  our  own,  traces  clearly  appear  of  a  sense  of  wrong  attaching  to 
any  form  of  bloodshed  whatever,  whether  of  fair  battle  or  of  base 
treachery,  calling  alike  for  the  purifying  influences  of  expiation  and 
cleansing.  In  South  Africa,  for  instance,  the  Basuto  returning  from 
war  proceeds  with  all  his  arms  to  the  nearest  stream,  to  purify  not  only 
his  own  person  but  his  javelins  and  his  battle-axe.  The  Zulu,  too, 
practises  ablutions  on  the  same  occasion  ;  and  the  Bechuana  warrior 
wears  a  rude  kind  of  necklace,  to  remind  him  of  the  expiation  due 
from  him  to  the  slain,  and  to  disperse  the  dreams  that  might  otherwise 
trouble  him,  and  perhaps  even  drive  him  to  die  of  remorse.^ 

The  same  feelings  may  be  detected  in  the  old  world.  The 
Macedonians  had  a  peculiar  form  of  sacrificatory  purification,  which 
consisted  in  cutting  a  dog  in  half  and  leading  the  whole  army, 
arrayed  in  full  armour,  between  the  two  parts.  ^  As  the  Boeotians 
had  the  same  custom,  it  was  probably  for  the  same  reason.  At 
Rome,  for  the  same  purpose,  a  sheep,  and  a  bull,  and  a  pig  or  boar, 
were  every  year  led  three  times  round  the  army  and  then  sacrificed  to 
Mars.  In  Jewish  history  the  prohibition  to  King  David  to  build  the 
temple  was  expressly  connected  with  the  blood  he  had  shed  in  battle 
In  old  Greek  mythology  Theseus  held  himself  unfit,  without  expia- 
tion, to  be  admitted  to  the  mysteries  of  Ceres,  though  the  blood  that 

'  Arbous^ct's  Exploratory  Tour,  397-9.  ■  X-W^^  iJU  ^ 


The  Gentleman  s  Mam. 


I 


stained  his  hands  was  only  that  of  tliieves  and  robbers.  And  In  the 
same  spirit  Hector  refused  to  make  a  libation  to  the  gods  before  he 
had  purified  his  hands  after  battle.  "  \\'ith  unwashen  liaods,"  he  sad, 
"  to  pour  out  sparkling  wine  to  Zeus  I  dare  not,  nor  is  it  ever  the 
custom  for  one  soiled  with  the  blood  and  dust  of  battle  to  offer 
prayers  to  the  god  whose  seat  is  in  the  clouds."  ' 

For  the  cause  of  this  feeliug  we  may  perhaps  choose  between  »n 
almost  instinctive  reluctance  to  take  human  life,  and  some  such 
superstition  as  explains  the  necessity  for  purification  among  the 
Basutos, — the  idea,  namely,  of  escaping  the  revenge  of  the  slain  by 
the  medium  of  water.''  The  latter  explanation  would  be  in  keeping 
with  the  not  uncommon  notion  in  savage  life  of  the  inability  of  a 
spirit  to  cross  running  water,  and  would  help  to  account  for  the 
necessity  there  was  for  a  Hebrew  to  flee,  or  for  a  Greek  to  nuke 
some  expiation,  even  though  only  guilty  of  an  act  of  unintentioMl 
homicide.  And  in  this  way  it  is  possible  that  the  sanctity  of  huniill 
life,  which  is  one  of  the  chief  marks,  and  should  be  one  of  the  chief 
objects,  of  civilisation,  originated  in  the  very  same  fear  of  a  post- 
mortem vengeance,  which  leads  some  savage  tribes  to  entreat  pardffl 
of  the  bear  or  elephant  whom  they  haie  slain  after  a  successIiJ 
chase. 

But,  account  as  we  like  for  the  origin  of  the  feeling,  its  un' 
doubted  existence  is  the  point  of  interest,  for  it  is  easy  to  see  th*t 
under  slightly  more  favourable  conditions  of  history  it  might  hive 
ripened  into  a  state  of  thought  which  would  have  held  the  soldier 
and  the  manslayer  in  equal  abhorrence.     Christianity  in  its  primitive 
form  certainly  aimed  at  and  very  nearly  effected  the  transitioa    In 
ihe  Greek  Church  a  Christian  soldier  was  debarred  from  the  Eucharist 
for  three  years  if  he  had  slain  an  enemy  in  battle  ;  and  the  ChrisdiB    | 
Church  of  the  first  three  centuries  would  have  echoed  the  sentiniei»t  j 
expressed  by  St.  Cyprian  in  his  letter  to  Donatus  :  "  Homicide  wbw*  , 
committed  by  an  individual  is  a  crime,  but  a  virtue  when  commitlMJ  ] 
in  a  public  war ;  yet  in  the  latter  case  it  derives  its  impunity,  no*  ■ 
from  its  abstract  harmlessness,  but  solely  from  the   scale  of  it*-j 
enormity."  1 

The  education  of  centuries  has  long  since  effaced  the  eariie*^ 
scruple  ;  but  there  are  thousands  of  Englishmen  to  whom  a  militiC^ 
profession  is  the  last  they  would  voluntarily  adopt,  and  it  would  b»<i 
rash  to  predict  the  impossibility  of  the  revival  of  the  older  feeling,  C^S 
the  dimensions  it  may  ultimately  assume.     The  greatest  poet  of  oi^ 


Tlie  Limits  of  Military  Duty.  241 

time,  who  more  than  any  other  living  man  has  helped  to  lead 
European  opinion  into  new  channels,  may,  perhaps,  in  the  following 
lines  have  anticipated  the  verdict  of  the  coming  time,  and  divined 
an  midercurrent  of  thought  that  is  beginning  to  flow  even  now 
amongst  us  with  no  inconsiderable  force  of  feeling  : — 

La  phrase,  cette  altiire  et  vile  courtisane, 
Dore  le  meurtre  en  grand,  fourbit  la  pertuisane, 
Protege  les  soudards  contre  le  sens  comjnun. 
Persuade  les  niais  que  tous  sont  faits  pour  un, 
Prouve  que  la  tuerie  est  glorieuse  et  bonne, 
Deroute  la  logique  et  Tevidence,  et  donne 
Un  sauf-conduit  au  crime  ^  travers  la  raison.* 

The  destruction  of  the  romance  of  war  by  the  greater  publicity 
given  to  its  details  through  the  medium  of  the  press  clearly  tends  to 
strengthen  this  feeling,  by  tempering  popular  admiration  for  military 
success  with  a  cooling  admixture  of  horror  and  disgust  Take,  for 
instance,  the  following  description  of  the  storming  of  the  Egjrptian 
trenches  at  Tel-el-Kebir,  by  an  eye-witness  of  it : — "  In  the  redoubt 
into  which  our  men  were  swarming  the  Egyptians,  throwing  away 
their  arms,  were  found  cowering,  terror-stricken,  in  the  comers  of  the 
works,  to  hide  themselves  from  our  men.  Although  they  had  made 
such  a  contemptible  exhibition,  from  a  soldierly  point  of  view,  it  was 
impossible  to  help  pitying  the  poor  wretches  as  they  huddled  together; 
it  seenud  so  much  like  rats  in  a  pit  when  the  terrier  has  set  to  workJ* 
And  some  2,500  of  them  were  afterwards  buried  on  the  spot,  most 
of  them  killed  by  bayonet  wounds  in  the  back. 

This  is  an  instance  of  the  tuerie  that  Victor  Hugo  speaks  of^ 
which  we  all  call  glorious  when  we  meet  in  the  streets,  reserving, 
perhaps,  another  opinion  for  the  secret  chamber.  Still,  when  it 
comes  to  comparing  the  work  of  a  victory  to  that  of  a  terrier  in 
a  ratpit,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  realism  of  war  threatens 
to  become  more  repellent  than  its  romance  was  once  attractive, 
and  to  deter  men  more  and  more  from  the  choice  of  a  profession 
of  which  similar  disgusting  scenes  are  the  common  and  the  probable 
episodes. 

Descartes,  the  father  of  modem  philosophy  and  of  free  thought, 
who,  from  a  love  for  arms  and  camp- life,  which  he  attributed  to  a 
certain  heat  of  liver,  began  life  in  the  army,  actually  gave  up  his  mili- 
tary career  for  the  reasons  which  he  thus  expressed  in  a  letter  to 
a  friend  :  "  Although  custom  and  example  render  the  profession  of 
arms  the  noblest  of  all,  I,  for  my  own  part,  who  only  regard  it  like  a 

*  Victor  Hugo's  Vdne,  124. 
\'0L.  ccLvui.    NO.  1851.  % 


The  Ge}Ule»ian's  Magasine. 

philosopher,  value  it  at  its  proper  worth,  and,  indeed,  I  find  it  ver* 
difficult  to  give  it  a  place  aiuonji;  the  honourable  professions,  scdnn 
that  idleness  and  licentiousness  are  the  two  principal  motives  whic^ 
now  attract  most  men  to  it."  '  i 

Of  course  no  one  in  modern  times  would  come  to  the  same  cor* 
elusions  as  Descartes  for  the  same  reasons,  the  discipline  of  o-^ 
armies  being  somewhat  more  serious  than  it  was  in  the  first  half  | 
the  seventeentJi  century.  Nevertheless,  it  is  impossible  to  read  | 
the  German  campaign  in  France  without  hoping,  for  the  good  of  fcj 
world,  that  the  inevitable  association  of  war  with  the  most  revoltij 
forms  of  crime  therein  displayed,  may  some  day  produce  a  stale 
sentiment  similar  to  that  anticipated  by  Descartes. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  example  of  Descartes  proves  and  indicates 
nothing  ;  and  we  may  feel  pretty  sure  that  his  scruples  seemed  et 
travaganlly  absurd  to  his  contemporaries,  if  he  suffered  them  tolcnoir 
ihem.  Nevertheless,  he  might  have  appealed  to  several  wdl-knovn 
historical  facts  as  a  reason  against  too  hasty  a  condemnation  of  bis 
apparent  super- sensitiveness.  He  might  have  argued  tliat  the  p^^^ 
fession  of  a  pirate  once  reflected  no  more  moral  discredit  than  that 
of  a  soldier  did  tn  his  days  ;  that  the  pirate's  reply  to  Alexanda, 
that  he  infested  the  seas  by  the  same  right  wherewith  the  conqueror 
devastated  the  land,  conveyed  a  moral  sentiment  once  generally 
accepted,  nor  even  then  quite  extinct ;  that  in  the  days  of  Homer  it 
was  as  natural  to  ask  a  seafarer  whether  he  were  a  freebooter  »S 
whether  he  were  a  merchant ;  that  so  late  in  Greek  history  as  die 
time  of  Thucydides,  several  tribes  on  the  mainland  of  Greece  still 
gloried  in  piracy,  and  accounted  their  plunder  honourably  won ;  wd 
that  at  Rome  the  Cilician  pirates,  whom  it  devolved  on  Pompey  » 
disperse,  were  joined  by  persons  of  wealth,  birth,  and  education,  "* 
if,"  says  Plutarch,  "  their  employment  were  worthy  of  the  ambiliw 
of  men  of  honour."    ■ 

Remembering,  therefore,  these  things,  and  the  fact  that  not  * 
very  many  centuries  ago  public  opinion  was  so  lenient  to  the  practice 
of  bishops  and  ecclesiastics  taking  an  active  part  in  warfare  thattlKT 
commonly  did  so  in  spite  of  canons  and  councils  to  the  contrary,  it  i^* 
fair  subject  for  speculation  whether  the  moral  opinion  of  the  fiituf* 
may  not  come  to  coincide  with  the  feeling  of  Descartes,  and  it  behort' 
us  to  keep  our  minds  alive  to  possibilities  of  change  in  this  matie'i 
already  it  would  seem  in  process  of  formation.  Who  will  venture  to 
predict  what  may  be  the  effect  of  the  rise  of  the  general  level  ■" 
education,  and  of  the  increased  religious  life  of  our 
'  Baillat's  Vit  ,/c  Dcseartes, 


;  general  lerei  "^ 
our  time,  on  ll>* 


The  Limits  of  Military  Duty.  243 

popular  judgment  of  even  fifty  years  hence  regarding  a  voluntarily 
adopted  military  life  ? 

We  may  perhaps  attribute  it  to  the  extreme  position  taken  up 
with  regard  to  military  service  by  the  Quakers  and  Mennonites  that 
the  example  of  Descartes  had  so  slight  a  following.  That  thick 
phalanx  of  our  kind  who  fondly  mistake  their  own  mental  timidity 
for  moderation,  perpetually  make  use  of  the  doctrines  of  extremists 
as  an  excuse  for  tolerating  or  even  defending  what  in  the  abstract  they 
admit  to  be  evil ;  and  it  was  unfortunately  with  this  moderate  party 
that  Grotius  elected  to  throw  in  his  lot.  No  one  admitted  more 
strongly  the  evils  of  war.  The  reason  he  himself  gave  for  writing 
his  "  De  Jure  Pads  et  Belli"  was  the  licence  he  saw  prevailing 
throughout  Christendom  in  resorting  to  hostilities ;  recourse  had  to 
anns  for  slight  motives  or  for  none ;  and  when  war  was  once  begun  an 
utter  rejection  of  all  reverence  for  divine  or  human  law,  just  as  if  the 
unrestrained  commission  of  every  crime  became  thenceforth  legiti- 
mate. Yet,  instead  of  throwing  the  weight  of  his  judgment  into  the 
scale  of  opinion  which  opposed  the  custom  altogether  (though  he  did 
advocate  an  international  tribunal  that  should  decide  differences  and 
comi>el  obedience  to  its  decisions)^  he  only  tried  to  shackle  it  with 
rules  of  decency  that  are  absolutely  foreign  to  it,  with  the  result, 
after  all,  that  he  did  very  little  to  humanise  wars,  and  nothing  to  make 
them  less  frequent. 

Nevertheless,  though  Grotius  admitted  the  abstract  lawfulness  of 
military  service,  he  made  it  conditional  on  a  thorough  conviction  of  the 
righteousness  of  the  cause  at  issue.  This  is  the  great  and  permanent 
merit  of  his  work,  and  it  is  here  that  we  touch  on  the  pivot  or  central 
question  of  military  ethics.  The  orthodox  theory  is,  that  with  the  cause 
of  war  a  soldier  has  no  concern,  and  that  since  the  matter  in  contention 
b  always  too  complicated  for  him  to  decide  upon  its  merits,  his  only 
duty  is  to  blindfold  his  reason  and  conscience,  and  rush  wheresoever 
his  services  are  commanded.  Perhaps  the  best  exposition  of  this 
simple  military  philosophy  is  that  given  by  Shakespeare  in  his  scene 
of  the  eve  of  Agincourt,  where  Henry  V.,  in  disguise,  converses  with 
some  soldiers  of  the  English  army.    '^  Methinks,''  says  the  king, 

I  could  not  die  anywhere  so  contented  as  in  the  king's  company,  bis  cause 
being  just  and  his  quarrel  honourable 

William.  That's  more  than  we  know. 

Bates,  Ay,  or  more  than*  we  should  seek  after,  for  we  know  enough  if  we 
know  we  are  the  king's  subjects.  If  his  cause  be  wrong,  our  obedience  to  the 
king  wipes  the  crime  of  it  out  of  us. 

Yet  ihe  whisper  of  our  own  day  is,  Does  it  ?    ¥ot  a  ^o\^tx^xi^^* 


244  ^^^^  GentlemafCs  Magazine. 

adays,  enjoys  equally  with  the  civilian,  who  by  his  vote  contri. 
butes  to  prevent  or  promote  hostilities,  the  greater  facilities  afforded 
by  the  spread  of  knowledge  for  the  exercise  of  his  judgment  ;  and  it 
is  to  subject  him  to  undeserved  ignominy  to  debar  him  from  the  free 
use  of  his  intellect,  as  if  he  were  a  minor  or  an  imbecile,  incompetent 
to  think  for  himself.  Moreover,  the  existence  of  a  just  and  good 
cause  has  always  been  the  condition  insisted  on  as  alone  capable  of 
sanctioning  military  service  by  writers  of  every  shade  of  thought — by 
St  Augustine  as  representing  the  early  Catholic  Church,  by  Bol- 
linger or  Becon  as  representatives  of  the  early  Reformed  Church, 
and  by  (Irotius  as  representative  of  the  modem  school  of  publicists. 
Grotius  contends  that  no  citizen  or  subject  ought  to  take  i>art  in  an 
unjust  war,  even  if  he  be  commanded  to  do  so.  He  openly  maintains 
that  disobedience  to  orders  is  in  such  a  case  a  lesser  evil  than  the 
guilt  of  homicide  that  would  be  incurred  in  fighting.  He  inclines  to 
the  opinion  that,  where  the  cause  of  war  seems  doubtful,  a  man  would 
do  better  to  refrain  from  service,  and  to  leave  the  king  to  employ 
those  whose  readiness  to  fight  might  be  less  hampered  by  questions 
of  right  and  wrong,  and  of  whom  there  would  always  be  a  plentiful 
supply.  Without  these  reservations  he  regards  the  soldier's  task  as 
so  much  the  more  detestable  than  the  executioner's,  as  manslaughter 
without  a  cause  is  more  heinous  than  manslaughter  with  one,'  and 
thinks  no  kind  of  life  more  wicked  than  that  of  men  who,  without 
regard  for  the  cause  of  war,  fight  for  hire,  and  to  whom  the  question 
of  right  is  equivalent  to  the  question  of  the  highest  wage.* 

These  arc  strong  opinions  and  expressions,  and  as  their  general 
acceptance  would  logically  render  war  impossible,  it  is  no  small  gain 
to  have  in  their  favour  so  great  an  authority  as  Grotius.  But  it  is 
an  even  greater  gain  to  be  able  to  quote  on  the  same  side  an  actual 
soldier.  Sir  James  Turner  at  the  end  of  his  military  treatise  called 
"  Pallas  Armata,"  published  in  1683,  came  to  conclusions  which, 
though  adverse  to  Grotius,  contain  some  remarkable  admissions 
and  show  the  difference  that  two  centuries  have  made  on  military 
maxims  with  regard  to  this  subject.  **  It  is  no  sin  for  a  mere 
soldier,"  he  says,  "  to  serve  for  wages,  unless  his  conscience  tells  him 
he  fights  in  an  unjust  cause."  Again,  '*  That  soldier  who  serves  or 
fights  for  any  prince  or  state  for  wages  in  a  cause  he  knows  to  be 
unjust  sins  damnably."    He  even  argues  that  soldiers  whose  original 

*  ii.  25,  9,  I.     Tanto  camifice  detestabiliorcs  quanto  pejus  est  sine  cans! 
I  ex  caus^  occidere. 

lb.  2.     Nullum   vitx  genus  est   improbius  quam  eorum   qui  sine  causM 
conducti  militant,  et  quibus  ibi  fas  ubi  plurima  merces. 


The  Limiis  of  Military  Duty. 

ice  began  for  a  just  cause,  and  who  are  constrained  by  their 
militaiy  oaths  to  continue  in  service  for  a  new  and  unjust  cause  of 
irar,  ought  to  "  desert  their  employment  and  suffer  anything  that 
could  be  done  to  them  before  they  draw  their  swords  against  their 
town  conscience  and  Judgments  in  an  unjust  quarrel."  ' 

These  moral  sentiments  of  a  military  man  of  the  seventeenth 
itury  are  absolutely  alien  to  the  military  doctrines  of  the  present 
day;  and  his  remarks  on  wages  recall  yet  another  important  landmark 
of  ancient  thought  that  has  been  removed  by  the  progress  of  time. 
Early  Greek  opinion  justly  made  no  distinction  between  the  mercenary 
*ho  served  a  foreign  country  and  the  mercenary  who  served  his  own. 
An  hired  military  senice  was  regarded  as  disgraceful,  nor  would  any- 
dne  of  good  birth  have  dreamt  of  serving  his  own  country  save  at 
Us  own  expense.  The  Carians  rendered  their  names  infamous  as 
liie  fitst  of  the  Greek  race  who  sen'ed  for  pay  ;  whilst  at  Athens 
Tericles  introduced  the  custom  of  supporting  the  poorer  defenders 
of  iheir  country  out  of  the  exchequer.^  Afterwards,  of  course,  no 
JK^le  ever  committed  itself  more  eagerly  to  the  pursuit  of  mercenary 
6re. 

In  England  also  gratuitous  military  service  was  originally  the 
Oindition  of  the  feudal  tenure  of  land,  nor  was  anyone  bound  lo 
love  the  king  for  more  than  a  certain  number  of  days  in  the  year, 
bfiy  being  generally  the  longest  term.  For  all  service  in  excess  of 
Hk  legal  limit  the  king  was  obliged  to  pay  ;  and  in  this  way,  and  by 
liiescDlage  tax  by  which  many  tenants  bought  themselves  off  from 
lltir  strict  obligations,  the  principle  of  a  paid  military  force  was 
"cognised  from  the  time  of  the  Conquest  But  the  chief  stipen- 
^  forces  appear  lo  have  been  foreign  mercenaries,  supported, 
Wt  out  of  the  commutation  tax,  but  out  of  the  king's  privy  purse, 
•"d  Btill  more  out  of  the  loot  won  from  their  victims  in  war. 
'W  were  those  soldiers  of  fortune,  chiefly  from  Flanders,  Ura- 
■"ions,  or  Routers,  whose  excesses  as  brigands  led  to  their  excom- 
icatioQ  by  the  Third  Lateran  Council  (1179),  and  to  their 
licdon  by  a  crusade  three  years  later.^ 
_L  -Jut  the  germ  of  our  modern  recruiting  system  must  rather  be 
"4ed  for  in  those  military  contracts  or  indentures,  by  which  from 
Iwut  the  time  of  Edward  III.  it  became  customary  to  raise  our 
"fees:  some  powerful  subject  contracting  with  the  king,  in  con- 
Woaiion  of  a  certain  sum,  to  provide  soldiers  for  a  certain  time  and 
■*k.    Thus  in  13S2  the  war-loving  Bishop  of  Norwich  contracted 

'  364.  '  Poller's  Crtik  Anliquiti'es,  ii.  9. 

'  Henry's  Brilam,  iii.  J,  i;  Gtose,  i.  56. 


246  The  Gmtlemati s  Magaeine. 

with  Richard  II.  to  provide  2,500  men-at-arms  and  2,500  azchen  fa 
t  year's  service  in  France,  in  consideration  of  the  whole  fifteeflA 
that  had  been  voted  by  Parliament  for  the  war.*  In  the  same  wj 
several  bishops  indented  to  raise  soldiers  for  Henry  V.  And  tfans  a 
foreign  war  became  a  mere  matter  of  business  and  hirei  and  aimies 
to  fif^ht  the  French  were  raised  by  speculative  contractors,  vefjmiidi 
as  men  are,raiscd  nowadays  to  make  railways  or  take  part  in  other 
Works  nec<irul  for  the  public  at  large.  The  engagement  was  purdf 
pecuniary  and  commercial,  and  was  entirely  divested  of  any  connec> 
tion  with  conscience  or  patriotism.  On  the  other  hand,  the  motf 
obviously  just  cause  of  war,  that  of  national  defence  in  case  of 
invasion,  continued  to  be  altogether  disconnected  with  pay,  aod 
remained  so  much  the  duty  of  the  militia  or  capable  male  popnlatioa 
of  the  country,  that  both  Edward  III.  and  Richard  II.  directed 
writs  even  to  archbishops  and  bishops  to  arm  and  array  all  abbot% 
priors,  and  monks  between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  sixty  for  tte 
defence  of  the  kingdom.^ 

(Viginally,  therefore,  the  paid  army  of  England,  as  opposed  to 
the  mihtia,  implied  the  introduction  of  a  strictly  mercenary  foiee 
consisting  indifferently  of  natives  or  foreigners,  into  our  mititaiy 
system.  lUit  there  was  no  moral  difference  between  the  tvo 
classes  of  nu^rixMiaries  so  engaged  The  hire,  and  not  the  caoae^ 
luMUg  the  m.un  consideration  of  both,  the  Englishman  and  the 
Hralv;inv;on  were  et]ually  mercenaries  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of 
the  term.  The  prejudice  ng.iinst  mercenaries  either  goes  too  fa  or 
not  r.ir  enough.  If  a  Swiss  or  an  Italian  hiring  himself  to  fight  fat 
ciuse  abo\ii  which  he  was  icnorant  or  indifferent  was  a  meiceiHij 
soUlier,  so  was  an  Knglishman  who  with  equal  ignorance  and  in* 
thilert*nce  accej^ieil  the  wa»:es  onered  him  by  a  military  coDtzidorof 
his  own  nation.  l\iiher  the  conduct  of  the  Swiss  was  blamdesa»or 
the  l''ncUshm.in*s  luoial  i!cUnvn:cncv  wi5  the  same  as  his. 

n^c  public  opinion  ot*  former  times  re^rarded  both,  of  comse^tf 
cspuUx  Mamolcss,  or  r,it>.er  as  e.  ;:ally  n:;;ritorious.  And  it  is  woiA 
notunij;  that  t!u*  ^Xv^rJ  ".  •.r*,:'!  x^.is  ar:lied  alike  to  the  hW 
nulitan  soivant  01  hi>  own  as  ct'  .;:'i.^:hc:  country.  Shakesp>eare^  fa 
inMamv,  applies  the  tonr.  :r.c:vc:ur\  to  :h?  i.c^oo  Frenchmen  of  lov 
doijiw  Nhin  a  I  .Vj;int\v,:::,  >*y:o:'.i  \u"r.s:rt'e:  cisdiurjishes  fiom  II* 
uvw^  lYon* h;^,^c:\  o:  '.vs.^ov.  «.*..>  'w"*>:  :he:r  lives  on  that  mcflMV- 
*Mc  dax- 

1.-.  ,\i*  •.;  .  ::  .-■..s.-.  ^:  :h£^  :.;.v-  j,-^c» 
^^o;v  4»v  tMi:  x.\  »v.-.  >...-^. '.:;*.:  :-.^r\-rr.Arjss. 


»  \»i\w,^  V  53;.  t  rri£^  i.  67. 


The  Liniils  of  Military  Duly. 


'4;>fl 


And  even  so  late  as  1756,  the  original  signilication  of  the  word 
Had  so  little  chatiged,  that  in  the  great  debate  in  the  House  of  Lords 
on  ihe  Militia  Bill  of  that  year  Lord  Temple  and  several  other 
OKlors  spoke  of  the  national  standing  army  as  an  army  of  tnerun- 
<»w!,  without  making  any  distinction  between  the  Englishmen  and 
tit  Hessians  who  sensed  in  it.' 

The  moral  distinction  that  now  prevails  between  the  paid  service 
ofmivesand  of  foreigners  is,  therefore,  of  comparatively  recent  origin, 
Itws  one  of  the  features  of  the  Reformation  in  Switzerland  that  its 
leaders  insisted  for  the  first  time  on  a  moral  difference  between  Swiss 
soldiers  who  served  their  own  country  for  pay,  and  those  who  with 
eijial  bravery  and  credit  sold  their  strength  to  the  serviceof  the  highest 

Ifocdgn  bidder. 
Zvingli,  and  after  him  his  disciple  Bullinger,  effected  a  change  in 
Unmoral  sentiment  of  Switzerland  equivalent  to  that  which  a  man 
*wifd  effect  nowad.iys  who  should  persuade  men  to  discountenance 
BTsbandon  military  service  of  any  kind  for  pay.  One  of  the  great 
jrtaacles  to  Zwingli's  success  was  his  decided  protest  against  the 
I'ij'il  of  any  Swiss  to  sell  himself  to  foreign  governments  for  the 
l*«Mnission  of  bloodshed,  regardless  of  any  injury  in  justification  ; 
■Mil  was  mainly  on  that  account  that  Bullinger  succeeded  in  1549 
■preventing  a  renewal  of  the  alliance  or  military  contract  between 
"■e  cmtons  and  Henry  11.  of  France,  "  When  a  private  individual," 
■^  said,  '•  is  free  to  enrol  himself  or  not,  and  engages  himself  to 
"ght  against  the  friends  and  allies  of  his  sovereign,  I  know  not 
^fiether  he  does  not  hire  himself  to  commit  homicide,  and  whether 
"■'C  does  not  act  like  the  gladiators  who,  to  amuse  the  Roman 
'"■^le,  let  themselves  to  the  first  comer  to  kill  one  another." 

But  it  is  evident  that,  except  with  a  reservation  limiting  a  man's 
^^J^vice  to  a  just  national  cause,  BuUinger's  argument  will  also  apply 
'^  the  case  of  a  hired  soldier  of  his  own  country.  The  duty  of 
^^"ery  man  to  defend  his  country  in  case  of  invasion  is  intelligible 
enough  ;  nor  originally  did  the  duty  of  military  obedience  in  any 
"Country  mean  more.  In  1297  the  High  Constable  and  Marsha!  of 
England  refused  to  muster  the  forces  to  serve  Edward  I.  in  Flanders, 
On  the  plea  that  neither  they  nor  their  ancestors  were  obliged  to 
serve  the  king  outside  his  dominions  ;  ^  and  Sir  E.  Coke's  ruling  in 
C".alvin's  case,^  tb.it  Englishmen  are  bound  to  attend  the  king  in  his 
1  '"'an  as  well  without  as  within  the  realm,  and  that  their  allegiance  is 
I      lot  local  but  indefinite,  was  not  accepted  by  WTiters  on  the  constitu- 


248  The  Gentlanan  s  Magazine. 

tion  of  the  countr>'.  The  existing  militia  oath,  which  strictly  limits 
obedience  to  the  defence  of  the  realm,  covered  the  whole  military 
duty  of  our  ancestors  ;  and  it  was  only  the  innovation  of  the  militaty 
contract  that  prepared  the  way  for  our  modem  idea  of  the  soldiex's 
duty  as  unqualified  and  unlimited  with  regard  to  cause  and  place 
and  time.  The  very  word  soldier  meant  originally  stipendiary,  his 
pay  or  solde  (from  the  Latin  soiidum)  coming  to  constitute  his 
chief  characteristic.  From  a  servant  hired  for  a  certain  task  for  a 
certain  time  the  steps  were  easy  to  a  servant  whose  hire  boimd  him 
to  any  task  and  for  the  whole  of  his  life.  The  existing  military  oath, 
which  binds  a  recruit  and  practically  compels  him  as  much  to  a  war 
of  aggression  as  of  defence  at  the  bidding  of  the  executive,  owes 
its  origin  to  the  revolution  of  1689,  when  the  refusal  of  Dumbarton's 
famous  Scotch  regiment  to  serve  their  new  master,  William  IIL, 
in  the  defence  of  Holland  against  France,  rendered  it  advisable 
to  pass  the  Mutiny  Act,  containing  a  more  stringent  definition  of 
military  duty  by  an  oath  couched  in  extremely  general  terms.  Such 
has  been  the  effect  of  time  in  confirming  this  newer  doctrine  of 
the  contract  imi)lied  by  the  military  status,  that  the  defence  of  the 
monarch  "  in  person,  crown,  and  dignity  against  all  enemies,"  to 
which  the  modern  recruit  pledges  himself  at  his  attestation,  would 
be  held  to  bind  the  soldier  not  to  withhold  his  services  were  he 
called  njxm  to  exercise  them  in  the  planet  Mars  itself. 

llenee  it  api)ears  to  be  an  indisputable  fact  of  history  that  the 
modern  military  theory  of  Kuroi)e,  which  demands  complete  spiritual 
self-abandonment  and  unqualified  obedience  on  the  part  of  a  soldier, 
is  a  distiiu  t  trespass  outside  the  bounds  of  the  original  and,  so  to 
speak,  constitutional  idea  of  military  duty;  and  that  in  our  own 
country  it  is  as  much  an  encroachment  on  the  rights  of  Englishmen 
as  it  is  on  the  wider  rights  of  man. 

IJut  what  is  the  value  of  the  theor}^  itself,  even  if  we  take  no 
acciHinl  of  the  history  of  its  growth  ?  If  military  semce  precludes  a 
nvm  from  iliseussing  the  justice  o\  the  end  pursued  in  a  war,  it  can 
hardly  be  disputed  that  it  equally  precludes  him  from  inquiries 
about  the  uKMn>,  and  that  if  he  is  bound  to  consider  himself  as 
!ij;hting  in  any  case  for  a  lawful  cause  he  has  no  right  to  bring  his 
iiu>ral  sense  to  bear  upon  the  details  of  the  ser\-ice  required  of  him. 
r»ut  here  is  a  looi^hi^lo,  .1  ilaw,  in  the  argument  j  for  no  subject  nor 
soldier  can  be  compelled  to  ser\e  as  a  spy.  however  needful  such  ser- 
vuo  nu»y  be.  That  proves  that  a  hmii  does  exist  to  the  claims  on  a 
.sohliofs  obcilienoo.  And  Vattel  mentions  as  a  common  occurrrace 
the  lefusid  \Si  troops  to  act  when  the  cruelty  of  the  deeds  commanded 


The  Limits  of  Military  Duty.  249 

of  them  exposed  them  to  the  danger  of  savage  reprisals.  "Officers," 
he  says,  "who  had  the  highest  sense  of  honour,  though  ready  to  shed 
their  blood  in  a  field  of  battle  for  their  prince's  service,  have  not 
thought  it  any  part  of  their  duty  to*  run  the  hazard  of  an  igno- 
minious death,"  such  as  was  involved  in  the  execution  of  such  behests. 
Yet  why  not,  if  their  prince  or  general  commanded  them  ?  By  what 
principle  of  morality  or  common  sense  were  they  justified  in 
declining  a  particular  service  as  too  iniquitous  for  them  and  yet  in 
holding  themselves  bound  to  the  larger  iniquity  of  an  aggressive 
war  ?  AVhat  right  has  a  machine  to  choose  or  decide  between  good 
and  bad  any  more  than  between  just  and  unjust  ?  Its  moral  incom- 
petence must  be  thoroughgoing,  or  else  in  no  case  afford  an  extenu- 
ating plea.  You  must  either  grant  it  everything  or  nothing,  or  else 
offer  a  rational  explanation  for  your  rule  of  distinction.  For  it 
clearly  needs  explaining,  why,  if  there  are  orders  which  a  soldier  is 
not  bound  to  obey,  if  there  are  cases  where  he  is  competent  to 
discuss  the  moral  nature  of  the  services  required  of  him,  it  should 
not  also  be  open  to  him  to  discuss  the  justice  of  the  war  itself  of 
which  those  services  are  merely  incidents. 

Let  us  turn  from  the  abstract  to  the  concrete,  and  take  two 
instances  as  a  test  of  the  principle.  In  1689,  Marshal  Duras,  com- 
mander of  the  French  army  of  the  Rhine,  received  orders  to  destroy 
the  Palatinate,  and  make  a  desert  between  France  and  Germany, 
though  neither  the  Elector  nor  his  people  had  done  the  least  injury 
to  France.  Did  a  single  soldier,  did'  a  single  officer,  quail  or  hesi- 
tate ?  Voltaire  tells  us  that  many  officers  felt  shame  in  acting  as 
the  instrument  of  this  iniquity  of  Louis  XIV.,  but  they  acted 
nevertheless  in  accordance  with  their  supposed  honour,  and  with  the 
still  orthodox  theory  of  military  duty.  They  cut  down  the  fruit-trees, 
they  tore  down  the  vines,  they  burnt  the  granaries ;  they  set  fire  to 
villages,  to  country-houses,  to  castles  ;  they  desecrated  the  tombs  of 
the  ancient  German  emperors  at  Spiers;  they  plundered  the  churches; 
they  reduced  well-nigh  to  ashes  Oppenheim,  Spiers,  Worms,  Man- 
heim,  Heidelberg,  and  other  flourishing  cities  ;  they  reduced  400,000 
human  beings  to  homelessness  and  destruction — and  all  in  the  name 
of  military  duty  and  military  honour  !  Yet,  of  a  truth,  those  were 
dastardly  deeds  if  ever  dastardly  deeds  have  been  done  beneath  the 
sun ;  and  it  is  the  sheerest  sophistry  to  maintain  that  the  men  who  so 
implicitly  carried  out  their  orders  would  not  have  done  more  for  their 
miserable  honour,  would  not  have  had  a  higher  conception  of  duty,  had 
they  followed  the  dictates  of  their  reason  and  conscience  rather  than 
that  of  their  military  superiors,  and  refused  to  sacrifice  their  huiaaxuLt?| 


250  The  Gentlcfnans  Magazine. 

to  an  overstrained  theory  of  their  military  obh'gation,  and  their  memory 
to  everlasting  execration. 

In  the  case  of  these  destroyers  military  duty  meant  simply  militaiy 
servility,  and  it  was  this  reckless  servility  that  led  Voltaire  in  his 
"  Candide  "  to  put  into  the  mouth  of  his  inimitable  philosopher, 
Martin,  that  definition  of  an  army  which  tales  like  the  foregoing 
suggested  and  justified  :  **  A  million  of  assassins,  in  regiments,  tra- 
versing Kuropc  from  end  to  end,  and  committing  murder  and  brig- 
andage by  nilcs  of  discipline  for  the  sake  of  bread,  because  incom- 
petent to  exercise  any  more  honest  calling."  * 

An  English  case  of  this  century  may  be  taken  as  a  parallel  one 
to  the  French  of  the  seventeenth,  and  as  an  additional  test  of  the 
orthodox  military  dogma  lliat  with  the  cause  of  war  a  soldier  has 
no  concern.  It  is  the  Copenhagen  expedition  of  1807,  than  which 
no  act  of  might  within  this  century  was  more  strongly  reprobated  by 
the  public  opinion  of  Europe,  and  by  all  but  the  Tory  opinion  of 
England.  A  fleet  and  army  having  been  sent  to  the  Danish  capital, 
and  the  Danish  Government  having  refused  to  surrender  the  fleet, 
which  was  demanded  as  the  alternative  of  bombardment,  the  English 
military  ofl^icials  proceeded  to  bombard  the  city,  with  infinite  destruc- 
tion and  slaughter,  which  were  only  stayed  at  last  by  the  surrender 
of  the  fleet  as  originally  demanded.  There  was  no  quarrel  with  Den- 
mark at  the  time,  there  was  no  complaint  of  injur)';  only  the  surrender 
of  the  fleet  was  demanded.  English  public  opinion  was  both  excited 
and  divided  about  the  morality  of  this  act,  which  was  only  justified 
on  the  plea  that  the  Government  was  in  possession  of  a  secret  article 
of  the  Treaty  of  Tilsit  between  Napoleon  and  the  Czar  of  Russia, 
by  which  the  Danish  fleet  was  to  be  made  use  of  in  an  attack  upon 
England.  But  this  secret  article  was  not  dimlged,  according  to  Alison, 
till  ten  years  after>vards,-  and  many  disbelieved  in  its  existence  alto- 
gether, even  sup])osing  that  its  existence  would  have  been  a  good  case 
for  war.  Many  military  men  therefore  shared  in  the  feeling  that  con- 
demned the  act,  yet  they  scrupled  not  to  contribute  their  aid  to  it. 
Were  they  right  ?  Read  Sir  C.  Napier's  opinion  of  it  at  the  time,  and 
then  say  where,  in  the  case  of  a  man  so  thinking,  would  have  lain  his 
duty  :  "  This  Copenhagen  expedition — is  it  an  unjust  action  for  the 
general  good?  Who  can  say  that  such  a  precedent  is  pardonable? 
When  once  the  line  of  justice  has  been  passed,  there  is  no  shame 
left.  England  has  been  unjust.  .  .  .  Was  not  our  high  honour 
worth  the  danger  we  might  perhaps  have  risked  in  maintaining  that 
honour  inviolate  ?  "  ^ 

*   CandidCy  c.  xx.  *  Alison's  Europe y  vi.  491. 

*  Life  of  Sir  C.  Mapicr^  \.  ^^. 


The  Limits  of  Military  Duty.  251 

These  opinions,  whether  right  or  wrong,  were  shared  by  many 
men  in  both  services.  Sir  C.  Napier  himself  says  :  "  Were  there 
not  plenty  of  soldiers  who  thought  these  things  wrong?  .  .  .  but 
would  it  have  been  possible  to  allow  the  army  and  navy  ...  to 
decide  upon  the  propriety  of  such  attacks?"*  The  answer  is,  that 
if  they  did,  whether  allowed  or  not,  such  things  would  be  impossible, 
or  at  all  events,  less  probable :  than  which  there  could  not  be  a  more 
desirable  consummation.  Had  they  done  so  in  this  very  instance, 
our  historians  would  have  been  spared  the  explanation  of  an  episode 
that  is  a  blot  upon  our  annals. 

A  more  pleasing  precedent,  therefore,  than  that  of  the  French 
officers  in  the  Palatinate,  or  of  the  English  at  Copenhagen,  is  the 
case  of  Admiral  Keppel,  who  bravely  refused  to  take  part  in  the  war 
of  England  against  her  American  colonies,  because  he  deemed  her 
cause  a  bad  one.  He  did  no  violence  to  his  reason  or  conscience, 
nor  tarnished  his  fame  by  acting  a  part,  of  which  in  his  individual 
capacity  he  disapproved.  His  example  is  here  held  up  as  illustrating 
the  only  true  doctrine,  and  the  only  one  that  at  all  accords  with  the 
most  rudimentary  principles  of  either  religion  or  morality.  The 
contrary  doctrine  bids  a  man  to  forswear  the  use  of  both  his  reason 
and  his  conscience  in  consideration  for  his  pay,  and  deprives  him  of 
that  liberty  of  thought  and  moral  action  compared  with  which  his 
civil  and  political  Hberty  are  nothing  worth.  What  is  this  contrary 
doctrine  when  stripped  of  all  superfluities,  and  displayed  in  the  outfit 
of  common  sense  and  common  words  ?  What  is  it  but  that  the  duty 
of  military  obedience  overrides  all  duty  of  a  man  towards  himself  3 
that  though  he  may  not  voluntarily  destroy  his  body  he  cannot  do  too 
much  violence  to  his  soul ;  that  it  is  his  duty  to  annihilate  his  moral 
and  intellectual  being,  to  commit  spiritual  suicide,  to  forego  the 
use  of  the  noblest  faculties  which  belong  to  him  as  a  man  \  that  to 
do  all  this  is  a  just  cause  of  pride  to  him,  and  that  he  is  in  all  respects 
the  nobler  and  better  for  assimilating  himself  to  that  brainless  and 
heartless  condition  which  is  that  also  of  his  charger  or  his  rifle? 

If  this  doctrine  is  true  and  sound,  then  it  may  be  asked  whether 
there  has  ever  been  or  exists  upon  the  earth  any  tyranny,  ecclesiastical 
or  political,  comparable  to  this  military  one  \  whether  any  but  the  baser 
forms  of  priestcraft  have  ever  sought  to  deprive  a  man  so  completely 
of  the  enjoyment  of  his  highest  human  attributes,  or  to  absolve  him 
so  utterly  from  all  moral  responsibility  for  his  actions. 

This  position  can  scarcely  be  disputed,  save  by  denying  the 
reality  of  any  distinction  between  just  and  unjust  in  international 

*  Military  Law ^  17. 


252  The  Gcfttlemafis  Magazine. 

conduct ;  and  against  this  denial  may  be  set  not  only  the  evidence  of 
every  age,  but  of  every  language  above  the  stage  of  mere  baifaaxisiL 
Disregard  of  the  diHcrcnce  is  one  of  the  best  measures  of  the  dvilisa- 
tion  of  a  people  or  epoch.  Wc  at  once,  for  instance^  form  a  higher 
estimate  of  the  civilisation  of  ancient  India,  when  we  read  in  Anian 
that  her  kings  were  so  apprehensive  of  committing  an  unjust 
aggression  that  they  would  not  lead  their  armies  out  of  India  for  the 
conquest  of  other  nations.*  One  of  the  best  features  in  the  old 
pagan  world  was  the  importance  attached  to  the  justice  of  the 
motives  for  breaking  the  peace.  The  Romans  appear  never  to  have 
begun  a  war  without  a  previous  consultation  with  the  College  of 
Fecials  as  to  its  justice  ;  and  in  the  same  way,  and  for  the  same 
purpose,  the  early  Christian  emperors  consulted  the  opinion  of  the 
bishops.  If  a  Roman  general  made  an  unjust  attack  upon  a  people 
his  triumph  was  refused,  or  at  least  resisted  :  nor  are  the  instances 
unfrequent  in  which  the  senate  decreed  restitution  where  a  consul, 
acting  on  his  own  responsibility,  had  deprived  a  population  of  its 
arms,  its  lands,  or  its  liberties.'^  Hence  the  Romans,  with  all  their 
apparent  aggressiveness,  won  the  character  of  a  strict  regard  to 
justice,  which  was  no  small  part  of  the  secret  of  their  power.  "  You 
boast,"  the  Rhodians  said  to  them,  "  that  your  wars  are  successful 
because  they  are  just,  and  plume  yourselves  not  so  much  on  the 
victory  which  concUides  them  as  on  the  fact  that  you  never  begin 
them  without  good  cause."  ^  Conquest  corrupted  the  Romans  in 
these  respects  as  it  has  done  many  another  people  ;  but  even  to  the 
end  of  the  Republic  the  tradition  of  justice  survived ;  nor  is  there 
anything  finer  in  the  histor}-  of  that  people  than  the  attempt  of  the 
party  headed  by  Ateius  the  tribune  to  prevent  Crassus  leaving  Rome 
when  he  was  setting  out  to  make  war  upon  the  Parthians,  who  not 
only  had  committed  no  injur)-,  but  were  the  allies  of  the  Republic ; 
or  than  the  vote  of  Cato,  that  Ca?sar,  who,  in  time  of  peace,  had 
slain  or  routed  300,000  Germans,  should  be  given  up  to  the  people 
he  had  injiued  in  atonement  for  the  wrong  he  had  done  to  them. 

The  idea  of  the  importance  of  a  just  cause  of  war  may  be  traced, 
of  course,  in  histor}',  after  the  extinction  of  the  grand  pagan  philosophy 
in  which  it  had  its  origin.  It  was  insisted  on  by  Christian  writers 
who,  like  St.  Augustine,  did  not  regard  all  military  service  as  wicked. 

*  InMan  Expt'Jifion^  ix. 

*  Livy,  39,  3;  42,  21:  43,  5. 

'  Livy,  xlv.  22.  Certe  quidem  vos  estis  Romani,  qni  ideo  felida  bella  vestim 
esse,  quia  justa  sint,  pnc  vobis  fertis,  nee  tain  exitu  conim,  quod  vincatis,  qoani 
principiis  quod  non  sine  causa  suscipiatis,  gloriamini. 


The  Limits  of  Military  Duly. 

ffhal,  he  asked,  were  wars,  but  acts  of  brigandage  on  a  vast  scale,  if 
tfieir  justice  were  put  out  of  the  reckoning.'  A  French  writer  of  the 
time  of  Charles  V.  concluded  that  while  soldiers  who  fell  in  a  just 
ie  ffere  saved,  those  who  died  for  an  unjust  cause  perished  in  a 
Rale  of  mortal  sin.'  Even  the  Chevalier  Bayard,  who  accompanied 
diaries  VIII.  without  any  scruple  in  his  conquest  of  Naples,  was 

'  fond  of  saying  that  all  empires,  kingdoms,  and  provinces  were,  if 
iilhout  the  principle  of  justice,  no  better  than  forests  fiill  of 
Wgands^  ;  and  the  fine  saying  is  attributed  to  him,  that  the  strength 
of  arms  should  only  be  employed  for  the  establishment  of  right  and 
Bjuity.  But  on  the  whole  the  justice  of  the  cause  of  war  became  of  less 
Bd less  importance  as  time  went  on;  nor  have  our  modern  Christian 
wcieiies  ever  derived  benefit  in  that  respect  from  the  instruction  or 

:(lidince  of  their  churches  at  all  equal  to  that  which  the  society  of 
jBgin  Rome  derived  from  the  institution  of  their  Fecials,  as  the 
s  of  the  national  conscience. 

s  among  the  humane  endeavours  of  Grolius  to  try  to  remedy 
tluidcfect  in  modem  states  by  establishing  certain  general  principles 
lijwhichit  might  be  possible  to  test  the  pretext  of  any  given  war  from 
the  side  of  its  justice.  At  first  sight  it  appears  obvious  that  a  definite 
injury  is  the  only  justification  for  a  resort  to  hostilities,  or  in  other 
:di,  that  only  a  defensive  war  is  just ;  but  then  the  question  arises 
Wferdefencemay  be  anticipatory,  and  an  injury  feared  or  probable 
C'e  the  same  rights  as  one  actually  sustained.  The  majority  of  wars, 
fct  have  not  been  merely  wars  of  conquest  and  robbery,  may  be 
''^ed  to  that  principle  in  history,  so  well  expressed  by  I.ivy,  that 
"Kn's  anxiety  not  to  be  afraid  of  others  causes  them  to  become 
'I'jecls  of  dread  themselves.*  For  this  reason  Grotius  refused  to 
I  good  casus  belli  the  fact  that  another  nation  was  making 

J'flike  preparations,  building  garrisons  and  fortresses,  or  that  its 
"••^er  might,  if  unchecked,  grow  to  be  dangerous.  He  also  rejected 
*  pretext  of  mere  utility  as  a  good  ground  for  war,  or  such  pleas 

*  *he  need  of  better  territory,  the  right  of  first  discovery,  or  the 

"provemeni  or  punishment  of  barbarous  nations. 

A  strict  adherence  to  these  principles,  vague  as  they  are,  would 

•  Dt  deitaU  Dei.  v.  4. 
'  Arbre    dts  BatailUi,    quoted    in    Kennedy's    Infiifemt  of  ChriUiamly  git 

ttnaiienal  Law. 
'  Peiilol,  xvi,  137. 

*  III.  65.     Civendo  ne  meluanl,  homines  metucndos  ultro  Be  eOiciuDt,  et 
ab  nobis  repaUani,  tamqiuun  aut  faceie  aut  pati  neceue  sit,  injungimns 


I 


The  Genilei»an*s  Alagastne. 

have  prevented  most  of  the  bloodshed  that  has  occurred  in  Euro] 
since  Grotius  wrote.  The  difficulty,  however,  is,  that,  as  betweet- 
nations,  the  principle  of  utility  easily  overshadows  that  of  justice  - 
and  although  the  two  are  related  as  the  temporary  to  the  pennane^ 
expediency,  and  therefore  as  the  lesser  to  the  greater  expediency,  tliM 
relation  between  them  is  seldom  obvious  at  the  time  of  choice,  a^M 
it  is  easy  beforehand  to  demonstrate  the  expediency  of  a  war 
which  lime  alone  can  show  both  the  inexpediency  and  the  injusti^^ 
Any  war,  therefore,  however  unjust  it  may  seem,  when  judged  by 
canons  of  Grotius,  is  easily  construed  as  just  when  measured  by 
light  of  an  imperious  and  magnified  passing  interest;  and  the  =»!>-. 
sence  of  any  recognised  definition  or  standard  of  just  dealing  between 
nations  affords  a  salve  to  many  a  conscience  that  in  the  matters  oT 
private  life  would  be  sensitive  and  scrupulous  enough.  The  story  of 
King  Agesilaus  is  a  mirror  in  which  very  few  ages  or  countries  uaay 
not  see  their  own  history  reflected.  When  Phcebidas,  the  SpartAn 
general,  seized  the  Cadmeia  of  Thebes  in  the  time  of  peace,  the 
greater  part  of  Greece  and  many  Spartans  condemned  it  as  a  raost 
iniquitous  act  of  war ;  but  Agesilaus,  who  at  other  times  was  wont  to 
talkof  justice  as  the  greatest  of  all  the  virtues,  and  of  valour  without  ■* 
as  of  little  worth,  defended  his  officer's  action,  on  the  plea  that  it  «*^* 
necessary  to  regard  the  tendency  of  the  action,  and  to  account  it  ev^*^ 
as  glorious  if  it  resulted  in  an  advantage  to  Sparta. 

But  when  every  allowance  is  made  for  wars  of  which  the  Justin* 
is  not  clearly  defined  from  the  expediency,  many  wars  have  occurT^^ 
of  so  palpably  unjust  a  character,  that  they  could  not  have  been  |>«^^" 
sible  but  for  the  existence  of  the  loosest  sentiments  with  r^ard  to  tJ>* 
responsibilly  of  those  who  took  part  in  them.  We  read  of  wars  *^^ 
the  pretexts  of  wars  in  history  of  which  we  all,  whether  military  ie»^*' 
or  civilians,  readily  recognise  the  injustice  ;  and  by  applying  thesaJ*** 
principles  of  judgment  to  the  wars  of  our  own  country  and  time  -^^^ 
are  each  and  all  of  us  furnished  for  the  direction  of  our  conscieC*-*^* 
with  a  standard  which,  if  not  absolutely  scientific  or  consistent*  "^ 
sufficient  for  all  the  practical  purposes  of  life,  and  is  completely  si-*-*^ 
versive  of  the  excuse  which  is  afforded  by  occasional  instances 
difficult  and  doubtful  decision.  The  same  facihties  which  exist  ^*^ 
the  civilian  when  he  \otes  for  or  against  taxation  for  a  given  war, 
in  approval  or  disapproval  of  the  government  which  undertakes  *^ 
exist  also  for  the  soldier  who  lends  his  active  aid  to  it  ;  nor  is  it  _  ^ 

reasonable  to  claim  for  the  action  of  the  one  the  same  responsibil  *  ^-^ 
to  his  own  conscience  which  by  general  admission  attaches  to  c'-* 
other. 


The  Limits  of  Military  Duty.  255 

It  is  surely  something  like  a  degradation  to  the  soldier  that  he 
should  not  enjoy  in  this  respect  the  same  rights  as  the  civilian  ;  that 
his  merit  alone  should  be  tested  by  no  higher  a  theory  of  duty  than 
that  which  is  applied  to  the  merit  of  a  horse  \  and  that  his  capacity  for 
blind  and  unreasoning  obedience  should  be  accounted  his  highest  at- 
tainable virtue.  The  transition  from  the  idea  of  military  vassalage  to 
that  of  military  allegiance  has  surely  produced  a  strange  conception  of 
honour,  and  one  fitter  for  conscripts  than  for  free  men,  when  a  man 
is  held  asby  a  vice  to  take  part  in  a  course  of  action  which  he  believes 
to  be  wrong.  Not  only  does  no  other  profession  enforce  such  an  ob- 
ligation, but  in  every  other  walk  of  life  a  man's  assertion  of  his  own 
personal  responsibility  is  a  source  rather  of  credit  to  him  than  of 
infamy.  That  in  the  performance  of  any  social  function  a  man  should 
be  called  upon  to  make  an  unconditional  surrender  of  his  free  will, 
and  yield  an  obedience  as  thoughtless  as  a  dummy's  to  superior 
orders,  would  seem  to  be  a  principle  of  conduct  pilfered  from  the 
Society  of  Jesus,  and  utterly  unworthy  of  the  nobility  of  a  soldier.  As 
a  matter  of  history,  the  priestly  organisation  took  the  military  one  for 
its  model  :  which  should  lead  us  to  suspect  that  the  tyranny  we  find 
fault  with  in  the  copy  is  equally  present  in  the  original,  and  that  the 
latter  is  marked  by  the  same  vices  that  it  transmitted  to  the  borrowed 
organisation. 

The  principle  here  contended  for,  that  the  soldier  should  be  fully 
satisfied  in  his  own  mind  of  the  justice  of  the  cause  he  fights  for,  is 
the  condition  that  Christian  writers,  from  Augustine  to  Grotius,  have 
placed  on  the  lawfulness  of  military  service.  The  objection  to  it, 
that  its  adoption  would  mean  the  ruin  of  military  discipline,  will 
appear  the  greatest  argument  of  all  in  its  favour  when  we  reflect  that 
its  universal  adoption  would  make  war  itself,  which  is  the  only  reason 
for  discipline,  altogether  impossible.  Where  would  have  been  the  wars 
of  the  last  two  hundred  years  had  it  been  in  force  ?  Once  restrict 
legitimate  warfare  to  the  limits  of  national  defence,  and  it  is  evident 
that  the  refusal  of  men  to  take  part  in  a  war  of  aggression  would  equally 
put  an  end  to  the  necessity  of  defensive  exertion.  If  no  govern- 
ment could  rely  on  its  subjects  for  the  purposes  of  aggression  and 
injustice,  it  goes  without  saying  that  the  just  cause  of  war  would  perish 
simultaneously.  It  is  therefore  altogether  to  be  wished  that  that 
reliance  should  be  weakened  and  destroyed. 

This  reasoning  contains  the  key  that  is  alone  capable  of  closing 
permanently  the  portals  of  the  Temple  of  Janus  :  that  there  exists  a 
distinction  between  a  just  and  an  unjust  war,  between  a  good  and  a 
bad  cause,  and  that  no  man  has  a  right  either  to  take  part  knowingly 


.ri  'w'..'J.      :  .    .:..--.  - -.  >J.irve5  :o  \<  uniust,  nor  to  commit  him- 
<:  s:-~    .  ^  *    1  ::;•  n  .:'  J-ty  i^r.ich  deprives  him,  at  the  vcryoul- 
c-    a"  V  -  .r—  ;-..  •  .  *  ..::.-r.  :  i.-:r.r.*:ht  of  free  thought  and  free  will 
7:.  T>   .>    ' ;     -  :  .:'  :.LT5.;'r-iI  refrionsibility  which  has  long  since 

I  :r   ..:.-•    .v:-^-*  "i-'r  >^»=  :r.  the  senice  of  Mars,  and  which 
-;    ..-:-..-     ;;-'.:;:  iii  :r.L:re  ::  free  the  world  from  the  custom 
.  •^;-^:  -•  i  :->:  r_.-:.;-!y  -rr.icted  iL     For  it  attacks  that 
. .  V. :.  -s  - ,  -.      ^>^  ■ .  i  i*  ^ ;:  'i-i-e"  serously  attacked  before, — in  the 
'.-.-.  :' .  :  "-  -.  :■  -  ".' :  ^  ■  r-r:--r.:e,  :h:;L  in  sjite  of  all  warping  and 
-. .-.  r^    <-    . .  .    -  :    ■' .    ■i-'  i-^-  ■-:!::>  ^*^o  alone  make  it  pos- 
X.  .  .^  :     ..  V -.--.re:':  7;,  "aro  are  interested  in  abolishing 

■_-   ;._•--.        .:..-;» :.  \.i'.i  2 :  as>ive  assent  to  it  ourselves, 
:  .    :.  .  ...  ..     .  ■    ■  ---;7:  .."-  i5.-,r:.:r.  from  others 

>."•'.'.      .   ■.'...>•..-..'.    :::•-:  h:ir.d5,  if  it  has  not  yet  the 

. — ^-  .    :.- i    .:.-•..  r.    c:  .r.::r.  in  its  favour,  is  sealed 

-•..-*  V  .     :   :    .._•.-:•:..:'  :r.;.'.*  .-^f  the  best  intellects  that 

'.»,-.     .  .:-.  ^   •.-   :   .   ;:.>:.-■.-..:.>  ir.dissolubly  contained  in 

• ,    . . .       ,      ^ .  .        *  ' -   -     -^  ..-.:'>:  -:  r.:oral code.  It  can,  in  fact, 

V    ..       .   . .-.     .::.:-*  '.in-.er.ial  mxxims  of  those  two 

^.  ...  .     ..-.-...      ■.■■:■..:  ri->.r.  stands  absolutely  proof 

.V      -       ..-.:.:...:       1 -y  t.- re  v*  one  ilc  ^nth  the  ordinary 

.>    :   -  :. :.-  ::  -  Crristian  the  duty  of  doing 

*  •  ^   ,      -    .-.,  ..r.\     ■  V -■  .:  :t  r/iv  :^  saiely  predicted  that 

, ,     V      .  »  .    i  .      ^  :.;r..-.  J^.^  :h:;t  nuy  occur  of  utility  and 

,\  ■,',•.  .-.•.,.■    -^ -■"......■>:  ■   -  '•-'  ^Tc-tcr  expediency  of  a  world 

^    .  ...:-.   ...r>.   . :' :  .0  ^\,-.rT;or's  destructiveness  :  nor 

.   .-     ..-.,:   :...:..:;'    '..\;c  supply  a  single  coimter- 

,_>••;::;>.  ..i  .*.'<':"  .r/.o  .-ir.  argument  of  supposed 

^^\.,     X,      .....     .V.  r. :  :>i:i:.ri:  I w  tncciudly  parried,  even 

^  :  "^  ^:. .:--.  ':  V  the  consideration  of  the  over- 

„^         -.       .  .-*-.'     ^-....i  ::.*.  1-t  Ko^v  from  the  universal 

.,.•.,    :ir\^.- I"'  '-'''  •■  r-^-  :T;nc:;!e— the  principle  that 

'.  ..s   . :  ..:■  •  .:*.  i'>i ■  '.>  • '^*  ^••-•y  i^  to  his  conscience,  j 

J.   A.    FARRER. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  may  not  always  hold,  either  in  popular! 
estimation  or  inthe  judgment  of  critics,  such  high  rank  atnon^l 
fiiglish  novelists  as  was  accorded  to  her  during  the  last  twenty  years;  | 
<f  tier  life.  But  her  best  writings  will  endure,  and  students  of  other 
pnerations  besides  our  own  will  find  it  profitable  to  examine  and,  as 
fcumay  be,  to  understand  the  peculiar  conditions  under  which  her 
pnius  grew,  and  the  causes  of  the  blemishes  and  shortcomings  of  her 
"■04  in  some  respects,  as  well  as  of  its  excellence  and  brilliance  in 
oflwre.  Towards  this  much  help  has  been  rendered  by  the  account  of 
"George  Eliot's  Life,  as  related  in  her  Letters  and  Journals,"  which 
Mt  J.  W.  Cross,  her  devoted  friend  during  more  than  ten  years, 
■■idlicrhusbandduringthe  last  seven  months  of  her  life,  has  diligently 
■rf  discreetly  preixired. 

Mr.  Cross's  volumes  are  not  in  any  sense  a  biography.     George 

Mot  had,  by  implication,  forbidden  the  writing  of  a  detailed  and 

■Wpltie  record  of  her  life.     "  Is  it  anything  short  of  odious,"  she 

Qed,  "  that  as  soon  as  a  man  is  dead  his  desk  should  be  raked, 

•"dweiy  insignificant  memorandum  which  he  never  meant  for  the 

9^  be  printed  for  the  gossiping  amusement  of  people  too  idle  to 

•Bd  his  books  ?  "    Mr.  Cross  has  not  ventured  on  any  such  sacrilege, 

''"lias,  however,  collected  a  large  number  of  George  Eliot's  letters, 

*dhas  extracted  from  them  and  from  her  note-books  so  much   as 

•considered  sufficient  "to  show  the  development  of  her  intellect 

I  ""I character,"     He  has  performed  his  labour  of  love  with  remarkable 

f  "^'  and  commendable  good  taste.      The  volumes  show  only  too 

^•^inly  how  George  Eliot  wished  to  be  thought  of,  and  too  little  of 

^*  she  really  was;  but,  partial  and  incomplete  as  they  are,  they 

"^  Of  great  value  and  interest,  and  the  opportunity  they  afford  for 

orief  but  at  the  same  time  more  comprehensive  retrospect  than 

^1'  themselves  contain  is  wortli  taking  advantage  of, 

'*  God  be  thanked,"  Mr.  Browning  said  in  the  tender  and  beautiful 
^^  with  which,  concluding  his  "  Men  and  Women,"  he  dedicated 
*vhole  series  to  his  wife— 
Vol,  cclviii.    no.  iS$i.  t 


1 


-    L£    -r." 


C.-   Jf^rjsiMe. 


J     ^    » 


:v  .  j. -i. 


V  .^- 


•    ^ 


V 


V  '_ 


:  ni;.  Tk:  ih^t  the  fact  of 
li-j  : :  r-e  more  like  one 
ri:i.  :>.e  **  soul- side  "  with 
.  .  ::  sr.:  "ar  ihe  world  how 
.>  -il-  j-j  Vicious  in  her 
--«.:.  r^rizess  of  bearing 
:  >::':-.  =s>,  ofien  bordering 
1  I  .:  :n  her  best  and 
;  r. :-i-r.-  cf  philanthropic 
:  ::■.  :.i.r.cc  :o  the  dictates 
:  zz  :*i'..:  "^'-creatures  ;  and 
iT.r.  *'".e  jIso  then  was  to 
i  i-rrr,  «rcord:r.g  to  her 
;?  c:"  he:  life  in  younger 


V     —  . 


-V  . 


>-ta.«-     ^    ^k« 


*  « 


cjn:^:::  ^ 


-.•:.:     .       .    -  -  ,r.    -  f:r«:uvc.  esr^eciallv  if  we 

.  ?  - ,:  .  •*.  :*:  :':::r.  the  r.rst  to  enlarge 

.-■^   .   .       -      <-_:-.■  r.s?  rj'jr^  er.ough  for  the 

•.    .-    :.''.:.  ::'.cr.:>.     Her  father, 

_■        .      -  .     -.:.:■•;.>:;.:  c^r.  er.ier  lo  a  post 

-  ;.  .    ..  .  ■ . ,  .  r  1    .-  i  -^.r.:  and  sun*e^x>r  in 

:.'.:.   j   -      .'   .  :   .    ;.  :-~^c:n:  vf  nve  children, 

::.    :.":  .  ,       ;■   .    -..f    :':■..:   months   old   the 

..:  .--....-   \.-,.:  V.  ;.7.:  :r.  :':.\x  ^vjiel  home  she 

-. .    .   ..:  -     .      .'::  -.^.^ ■.'.::  J :".■.: :i.  for  more  than 

■M   ........      .-::.•:   :  .^   .T.'.y  cr.e  of  her  novels 

. :  : ,     . :   • ; . •- .\;  >     :   :   .   -■.:::v^-.::u'.:rcs  of  her  vouth, 
:;...:-;■.■.::>::■:.■.   d.-.:     i.  -.   '  .:.    ...•.;.:■.    .:   C/.lob  liarlh   that  we 

;::ivc  :hc  r.c.;:^?:  .:: ; :  .....  :;  /.  -  . :::...:  c:*  ".".wr  :*.i:her.  supplemented 

lor. J  ^:': ;. r a .;: J. s  r y  :. .  j  -..;;.:  -k ;. u *. .  «. r. *. ■ : ! cd  ' •  Looking  Back "  in 
*'  The  In::  :c?>ior.s  l  f  I  h..  •  hr.i.>:u-  ^ v.. '.-.."    **  Mv  father,"'  we  arc  told 

m  m  m  ' 

in  the  lasr-namcd  book,  "w.-.s  .^.  'iVrv  who  h.;i  nor  exactlv  a  dislike 
to  innova:i:ij;  dissenters,  l  ;ii  a  ri.:";;:  o:  inion  of  ihe:n  as  persons  of 
ill-founded  scl  f- con  fide  nvo.  Ar.d  I  often  smile  at  mv  consciousness 
that  certain  con3enative  prej  os-e>>io:i5  luve  min^L-Ld  themselves  for 
me  witii  the  intiuences  of  our  Miiiland  scererv,  from  the  tops  of  the 
elms  down  to  the  buttercu])s  and  the  little  vetches."  Often  accom- 
panying her  father  on  his  drives  through  country  lanes  and  to  quaint 
old  houses,  her  love  of  nature  in  all  its  varying  moods  had  early 


George  Eliot.  259 

encouragement ;  but  her  youngest  brother  was  her  dearest  companion 
in  the  days  of  toddling  childhood  It  is  not  easy  to  say  how  much 
autobiographical  accuracy  there  was  in  the  series  of  short  poems, 
miscalled  sonnets,  which  she  wrote  when  she  was  forty-eight,  under 
the  title  of  "Brother  and  Sister;"  but  they  fm^nish  some  charming 
glimpses  of  her  in  those  early  days.  "  I  cannot  choose,"  she  sa)rs  in 
the  opening  lines — 

I  cannot  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 
When  our  two  lives  grew  like  two  buds  that  kiss 

At  lightest  thrill  from  the  bees'  swinging  chime, 
Because  the  one  so  near  the  other  is. 

He  was  the  elder,  and  a  little  man 

Of  forty  inches,  bound  to  show  no  dread, 
And  I  the  girl  that,  puppy-like,  now  ran, 

Now  lagged  behind  my  brother's  larger  tread. 

I  held  him  wise  ;  and  when  he  talked  to  me 

Of  snakes  and  birds,  and  which  God  loved  the  best, 

I  thought  his  knowledge  marked  the  boundary 
Where  men  grew  blind — though  angels  know  the  rest. 

If  he  said  *<  Hush  ! "  I  tried  to  hold  my  breath  : 
Wherever  he  said  "  Come  !  "  I  stepped  in  faith. 

Again,  speaking  of  their  walks  in  springtime  and  autumn,  amid 
gay  flowers  and  "  black-scathed  grass,"  through  pretty  lanes  and 
terror-haunted  copses,  she  writes  : — 

Thus  rambling,  we  were  schooled  in  deepest  lore, 
And  learnt  the  meanings  that  give  words  a  soul, 

The  fear,  the  love,  the  primal  passionate  store, 
^\7lose  shaping  impulses  make  manhood  whole. 

Those  hours  were  seed  to  all  my  after  good  ; 

My  infant  gladness,  through  eye,  ear,  and  touch. 
Took  easily  as  warmth  a  various  food 

To  nourish  the  sweet  skill  of  loving  much. 

For  who  in  age  shall  roam  the  earth  and  find 

Reasons  for  loving  that  will  strike  out  love 
With  sudden  rod  from  the  hard  year-pressed  mind  ? 

Were  reasons  sown  as  thick  as  stars  above  : 

'Tis  love  must  see  them  as  the  eye  sees  light ; 
Day  is  but  number  to  the  darkened  sight. 

These,  of  course,  were  after-thoughts — the  reflections  of  a  woman 
of  forty-eight,  not  of  a  child  of  four  or  five.  None  the  less,  George 
Eliot  was  right  in  looking  back  with  moist  eyes  to  the  surroundings 
of  her  infancy,  in  saying  of  them  that  they  all,  both  large  and  little — 

Were  but  my  growing  self,  are  part  of  me. 
My  present  Past,  my  root  of  piety — 


.    n       • 


V  rj:  -^ 


...   !■_  :        _:.•.:'■  1-    ::  ..--.M;.-  .^tlt  Evans's  child-life. 

T.      -  -         .      ...-—:«  '  :■-•.     V :  t-   =.it  vs^  cr*:v  about  five, 

^  _  .     ._-  -  .  •  -    .       -::ir  -.  ■  .■: ..-  .'  »■:_-_:.  *':.*  was  educated 

_-.-«     ...     \:         ■'■  .     .    ^-'r    :::    .->>—'?   '.:    "^Ve    leCD   coDstaiitly 

J-..  T  .:      : :i-:    -.:  1  «  "    ftl. '«-:-:  ils.  her  home 

-.    •  .    \  .-.  •       7:    .::  ■-  -11  iTi-Lr  ;.  fiH^:  15  ".izje  pisscd  by. 
^     .       V  ..    ..     :..:::-::.  :•  i*  ~  ri.  .±.iz  z.  \:t.z  illness,  which 

.     _     T.---^     -Til   z:i\'.   7. LIT   r.tr    elder    sister's 

.«..-.  .      ..1-   --:.•:   ..tL^  I;-:  -Tje-ir  tu"^  hive  been 

.   ...T    .: . :      _r      r.:  i   Lii  r.tz  :  rz-iher  werenow 

.  ^  -    -   ...<i-  ^-1  ■  .-r."^-  v.:ji  ir.ry  1-ui  been  before 

:■ .  -   -.-. •        .'1     :r    _z:TrrS5,:-i: '.c  nziure.  Miss 

.    . .     V  • .     -.««::•;      J.  r:    frrcz    religious  con- 

,  ■     -  .--..-.  -----Si-r  ur.i  '-lt  '.eiters  to  some  of 

.    .-•...     -.  .1-^  :--   1-7.:  W7.?  W25  a  Methodist 

-  -     .    '.  .    .-L'-r.-.T    ::   Dirsh   Morris  in 

.    .      X     .  .'.■•:.■;•::  — tziil  :ir.d  moral  con- 

.  ^  -        .-.■.■..':•;  --Ni::r7.ed  Saint  Theresa, 

^^      .  .       .      .       '       -.7.17.:.' — c-e  "whose  loving 

^     -       .     -      .-._?;-  ^.-rcT-iSf  irear.ble  off  and 
..>.■.>..  ,  ..-.     ->  .-i   .:  ::7:er!r.j  in  some  long 

.     ^         ....       • -     -    -  7ri  >!:.:  on  theFloss,^ 

.^  .     V  -      ;     ..   ri::".rc:::a  ot  herself. 

V  .  -  ,     ^.."       ■    --/    •    :"-.7i-".    srn^e    pride  and 

^       X       ,    .  ,-.-...  ^:  .-      Hi:  cwr.  life  was  still 

.      -   .    ,.■-.-.■..-.   .  f  ■.;:7f-:- If  that  her  part 

.V  ,\  -    -  .■■...>.■.:   .i7.:e  to  voss  that  she 

'.    -         .•      .  ,..■...,:   .\ :;>?■. -.e   in  the  outward 

V  .    .    .      -    .    ,      ..:   ..■•*  ^^     .".  "::'::,  -ni  came  down  i^ith 

■  «    -  • 

^  -       -  -N  .    -  .......       .,...      , 

•    ,  "  .     ',    >    .  "i.  V  ..»■*.-  7  :"-.:l*  iv.-.>  .i  c:e.ir  nnd  almost 

V     .*  .s  ..  .       ,  ••:/:.:.,■.    >:-i\::'-.     **  Vov.  mav  trv.  but 

,  •>  >x     •■:.:.     ;•,:  .::":vr»varcs   in   ••l>aniel 

.    .    X  ..•  .:\^'  .*.  V..'  <  :.-.i-  cf  :  r.iir.N  in  vou.  and 


»« 


.   ,    V    ..  »    .-.  .'.  ■  \^    ■-  .-:  ■         Hi:   roli^-ious  feelings 

,    .»'  .  ,*.,x-  "A-.N^  :  ■/.•^v'x'x  :.'  I.  v^'./.cs-mer.iiinL:. jam-making, 

.    .   ,  .'.  ,      'v  X  ^-'.^  ^^:  :'.o;.s.  Ni..;  .7.:  for  her  aged  father,  and 

,     x\',-  '■.  x     X.  :»'\v\:  >.s:  •  .:c-:  of  knowle^liTC :  but  these 


r'Aings  were  evidently  irksome,  and  she  found  it  hard  Lhat  she  could 
get  no  little  leisure  for  studying  languages,  science,  and  music,  in  order 
lo  niake  advance  on  the  school  education  with  which  she  was  by  no 
means  saUsfied.  She  was  thus  prepared  for  the  great  change  that 
came  to  her  soon  after  her  father  had  removed  from  Griff  to  Coventry 
in  the  spring  of  184 1,  when  she  was  in  her  twenty -second  year. 

Charles  Bray,  the  philosopher  and  phrenologist,  lived  at  Coventry, 

With  htm  and  his  clever  wife,  and  his  wife's  cleverer  sister,  Miss  Sarah 

Hennell,    Miss    Evans   soon   made  acquaintance.     Charles   Bray's 

most  important  work,  "  The  Philosophy  of  Necessity,"  had  just  been 

published,  and  it  doubtless  helped  materially  to  a  conversion,  which 

was  nearly  as  sudden  and  complete  as  any  that  the  Calvinists,  from 

whom  Miss  Evans  now  parted  company,  are  apt  to  take  inordinate 

credit  for.     A  few  montlis  after  she  had  denounced  theatre-going  as 

1  frivolous  and  debasing  waste  of  time,  she  felt  that  her  conscience 

»oiild  not  allow  her  to  go  to  church,  and  there  by  her  presence  to 

give  tacit  assent  to  doctrines  and  practices  which  siie  now  held  to  be 

trong. 

Let  it  be  noted  that  in  her  new  frame  of  mind  Miss  Evans 
made  no  very  great  departure  from  the  old.  All  through  her  life  she 
"s  a  profoundly  religious  woman.  In  throwing  off  what  she 
f«garded  as  the  chains  of  her  Calvinistic  youth,  she  surrendered  none 
ofher  faith  in  the  Supreme  Good,  which  she  held  it  is  the  duty  of  all 
"•ing  mortals  lo  strive  after  with  all  their  might  This  conviction 
found  beautiful  expression  in  the  hymn  thai  she  wrote  late  in  life, 
ginning : — 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  iheir  presence ;  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity. 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  ^ms  that  end  with  self. 

In  ihooghts  sublime  that  pierce  the  eight  like  stars. 

And  wilh  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  march 

To  vajter  issues.     So  to  live  is  heaven. 

To  make  undying  music  in  tbe  world, 

Breathing  a  beauteous  order  that  controls 

With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 

It  was  some  time,  however,  before  Miss  Evans's  old  friends  could 
^^oncile  themselves  to  her  new  way  of  thinking.  Though  her  father 
""*  not  persevere  in  his  threat  of  turning  her  out  of  his  house,  and 
'"^  continued  to  attend  on  him  as  a  careful  housekeeper  and  an 
^"^ciionatg  companion  until  his  death  in  1849,  her  new  indepen- 


i 


7"cc-  GtKtlanciHs  Magazine. 


:r«d:ent  for  her  to  begin  to  cam  her 
r-wTL  '.  j?^.  5'-?  trirLiliii-i  Sr:i-?5*5  "  Life  of  Jesus,"  and  did  other 
>^:'^T:-t  ^■^*  r.-'t  z:  ir.t  rjiriTrrrker  s  carelessness,  during  the  ten 
••  ;j^^  iri:  she  7^-r<-i  .~  .*jc:  C:*. entry. 

In  :\=:.  ""  "ci  ::  <c::le  ir.  i.  rr.ion  znd  take  an  active  part  in 
^c-^-j  :-j  .""  '-."  S.r^..-:..  ::  which  she  had  already  been  a 
•■-r ;  .-=:  :-/r :-::-,  ?>-:  =:":;.rci  :.•:  another  stage  of  life,  and  found 
T'-i<>  :--;- -J?  :*  :  .:t::^  -ctirin-  j^d  intellectual  development, 
IT ;v :  -  '.  r  jj-i : - . i  :  ■  r  ^ . i . -b ' v  curln,;  the  next  quarter  of  a  centuiy. 

V^r.'  .-:--->:-rj  -~  i  s:hiric:erl5dc  glimpses  into  one  comer  of 
:'^i  I  :r.  ::r.  '..'j  ::"  -  ^>-tr«non  a^o^a  comer  illuminated  by  some 
:"".-"  ir..:  >-- -l  :-;-:" y  :"-.-: :»s  men,  as  well  as  by  other  women 
>«*5.ii5  :*-.?  vT.  -a'-:  T^ij  >:-:z  to  shine  in  :t  most  brightly  of  all — are 
r-rr/.5>.;.  i  ly  >[.f>  yv:ir.>'>  '.eners  and  journals  in  1851  and  the 
:>■.*:»-•.-;:  ye.:r<.  ~  On  Friday.'  she  wrote  in  September  1851,  "we 
had  srn'.-j  r.!ce  ye^::  *.e,  ar:.:r.z  ethers  a  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  who 
has  ;u5:  bro.:^'*:  o-:  a  larce  work  on  'Social  Statics.'"  On 
Nover.:rtr  r;  .  *'C-r';-'.e  v.v.V.-:d  the  other  day,  strongly  recom- 
nxer.dir.*:  Fr;»T.ir.z  the  :-:;.:  a-  a  T^Titer  for  the  R^ifU\  and  sa3ring, 
•  We  shal'.  see."  ^S:.::  r.:r:isc-:V"  On  April  22^  1S52  :  "  I  went  to 
the  o:  era  cr.  Sa:.:rdiy  w!:'-  :v.y  '  excellent  friend  Herbert  Spencer,' 
as  Ixwes  cil'.s  h!:i:.  \\\  h.:ve  a^eed  that  there  is  no  reas(» 
why  we  should  nc:  h/.ve  .-.5  r.v.vjh  of  each  other's  society  as  we  like. 
He  is  a  gcod.  d.*:^ ■:::•.;'.  ^.rc..:.::^,  and  I  always  feel  better  for 
l>eing  with  him."  Or.  May  :?;:  "  My  brightest  spot,  next  to  my 
love  of  /.'j  iriend>,  i>  the  celic:oi:>ly  calm  n^Tc*  friendship  that 
Herbert  Sj'kencer  v;ivcs  me.  We  see  each  other  every  day,  and  have 
a  delightful  i*.7"y*:/\:„vr:>  in  ever)-ihing.  But  for  him  my  life 
w-ould  be  desolate  enough."  On  March  28,  1S53  :  "  We  had  a 
pleasant  cveniui:  last  Wednesilay;  Lewes,  as  always,  genial  and 
amusing.  He  has  quite  won  my  liking  in  spite  of  myself."  On 
April  16  :  **  People  are  ver}-  good  to  me.  Mr.  Lewes  especially 
is  kind  and  attentive,  and  has  quite  won  my  regard,  after  having  had 
a  good  deal  of  my  vituperation.  Like  a  few  other  people  in  the 
world,  he  is  better  than  he  seems.  A  man  of  heart  and  conscience, 
wearing  a  mask  of  flippancy." 

George  Henry  Lewes,  two  and  a  half  years  older  than  Miss  Evans, 
had  begun  to  make  his  mark  as  a  diligent  writer  of  books,  thought- 
ful and  suggestive,  but  chiefly  conspicuous  for  grace  of  style  and 
skilful  reproduction  of  other  writers*  opinions,  long  before  their 
acquaintance  began.  He  had  also  been  married  for  several  years. 
The  marriage,  however,  had  ceased  to  aflbrd  any  happiness  to  either 


George  Eliot. 

fcusband  or  wife,  and  those  who  knew  Lewes  best,  and  were  most 
aiudous  to  find  excuses  for  him,  were  not  able  to  hold  him  blameless 
ia  ihe  matter.  The  sparkle  and  versatility  that  rendered  him  attrac- 
tive in  society  had  not  conduced  to  domestic  enjoyment  or  to  his 
own  moral  vigour.  He  was  leading  a  Bohemian  life  in  and  out  of 
XondoD,  and  was  squandering  his  mental  faculties,  a  voluntary  exile 
frotn  the  home  which  he  still  did  his  best  to  maintain  in  external 
comfort  for  its  occupants,  but  which  he  had  helped  to  make  intoler- 
able for  himself,  when  Miss  Evans  settled  in  London,  and  when 
Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  then,  as  always  afterwards,  profiting  by  the 
worthy  friendship  he  had  formed  with  her,  brought  him  within  the 
circle  of  their  intimacy.  The  friendship  between  these  two  appears 
to  have  lasted  for  nearly  three  years  on  terms  which  violated  no  con- 
ventional law,  and  to  have  been  slow  in  reaching  a  stage  at  which 
iherc  was  any  risk  of  conventionality  beijig  openly  broken  down. 
In  the  mean  while  Miss  Evans  was  gradually  finding  the  conditions 

»rf  her  new  life  in  London,  as  a  single  woman,  mixing  freely  in 
Iterary  society,  less  agreeable  and  sufficient  than  she  had  anticipated. 
fhc  strain  of  her  work  for  the  Watmimter  Revmu  was  more  than 
flie  could  bear,  and  the  result  of  all  her  hard  work  was  a  very  scanty 
income  of  about^g  a  month.  Early  in  1854 she  found  it  necessary 
lo  resign  her  editorial  duties,  "I  shall  be  much  more  satisfied  on 
many  accounts  to  have  done  with  that  affair,"  she  wrote  on  her 
ibirty-tourth  birthday ;  "  but  I  shall  find  the  question  of  supplies 
lather  a  difficult  one  this  year,"  Some  time  before  that  she  had 
^bought  of  going  to  Australia  with  her  married  sister,  who  had  just 
lost  her  husband.  "  One  wants  soinetlting  to  keep  up  one's  faith  in 
'"^Ppiness,"  she  had  then  wTitten — "  a  ray  or  two  for  one's  friends,  if 
"01  for  one's  self."  She  threw  rays  on  her  friends'  lives,  but  had  few 
lo  boast  of  in  her  own.  Her  letters  told  of  headaches  and  heart- 
*^es,  weariness  of  body  and  depression  of  spirits.  She  was 
'"irdened  with  other  people's  troubles  as  well  as  her  own,  and  with 
""^  other's  especially.  "  Poor  Lewes  is  ill,"  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Bray 
°"  April  18,  1854,  "and  is  ordered  not  to  put  pen  to  paper 
'*  a  month  ;  so  I  have  something  to  do  for  him  in  addition  to  my 
°*n  «ork,  which  is  rather  pressing."  Ten  weeks  afterwards,  accom- 
™ying  Lewes  to  Weimar  on  the  journey  needed  for  the  completion 
'  his  "  Life  of  Goethe,"  she  took  a  step  which  led  lo  her  doing  a 
B*"^!  deal  more  for  him  during  the  next  two-and -twenty  years. 
Hi  This  step  Mr.  Cross  rightly  calls  "  the  most  important  event 
HJ**Orge  Eliot's  life."  Those  who  think  apology  for  it  necessary  or 
H*^*ssibie  will  remember  that  Lewes,  being  divorced  in  all  but  legal 


□r 

1 


-  -ru  :r :  — r    : :  •:  t"'*:::  : :~-  rj.r:z  1 5rr=il  issclction  of  his  maniage 
■■•  «r    :_.:     ■  -  ■  J-  •--  .:.-  ;        -.:=j:  ri:e=«:s  of  Miss  Evans  who, 

•  --  --  -  . -—    ■;   —  :  x:ri  "^zJ-L  re  ennobled  by  com- 

_*.    ■.-       V  .      •  ::.     .r    :-       i^  i   '^zr.  zzzTt  strongly,  thai  her 

-  -  ..:  >  »  .  .  r  :  ^  -  LzL  i_r^:rr  :3  his  life  and  work, 
T-  :_  .-.:;-  ~  -.-■:-:  .r  tzr  ::zL-l:rs  nrra  vhich  the  only 
^.  -  .  .  ^-.-:  :-=  -■- :  :-;:-. ?7  iiSz^nnW  adopted.  It 
:■>..'•_-      -. -.    :.    .:_■  -:-jr  . : -r>e  ::' lit  having  been  chosen, 

\_-   ..     -  .-  .-;  J.  :_■_-:_  -  :t:  'i:iz:rizW  as  any  marriage 

•  .    .-  .       .  :     -       -..^f-:: -J -=-iz;- c*i  friends  and  all  her 

;.  ■  -      ;  ".    '     --   7   L-i    ■  frre-i  whit  she   considered 

<.  ■    ■  ■..      :     -  ;..~-j>:::   i:  iz"  nre.  :ne  of  them.     "Light 

:  *      . ..-.        -   ^    -      .-.  ■    - :  J   >^  :     :  1    -irizT  i:  Mrs.  Brav,  written 

.-  .-•    '     V   -   :*:-    '.-    : .:  -    -  i^i  :«ir~  =iice  and  acted  on, 

T    :      '.-   ::-^   ■*.-;-_  ;^1  -  -■::  cz'iLd  live  for  practi- 

•  .:  V  '-.-::.- .:  v-_-  c.  .\:  re?  do  r.-f  act  as  I  have 

.    • .      '•-.::•     .  -  ¥  -  .       .  --i .  -riT. -;.:.<  -^rson  who  is  sufficiently 

:  ^         ■ .   -*:        .-.:';.---  irr-.'-i^ce  mv  relation  to 

''•  .*.-■■-    -.      -    ::,:    —       .-'-rsciri  bv  rememberins:  how 

-..'..-•.  .  \  .*:  -  ■ ,'    •■:..-.->  vj.:  =:-'-i  orinion.     But  I  ^o 

-\     .      V,      -  -     .  ■ ;  ■    ^  .     ^, :jt:c^:  :r  uncharitable  thoughts 

1  ^-  -^  * '  •    .'•:.-.  -  .-i.  :   .-  :-.;._^h  tj  mi^h:  have  expected  a 

<• .  ^.  *  '..  ,•  • ,  -,  ■ :  ,-.-.:  y  ~:.r  : :  i  rz^'  :r.zr  cf  persons^  of  course, 
•*-,•  •,'  •,-  .v<.v  -  :*  :■  ^^  :_:  -:-iizi=j:rl:r.  We  ore  leading  no 
■  V  ,\'  v:  •  *,•  ^:-:-,  ;\..;  -.  .-  :-•,  r-^:  r-izz  h^rrv  in  each  other, 
*v  -*  -J  :•.:•';'  ,:  ,.*.<•■  ■  :  i':.  -^  :-v -^  >.iri  :o  provide  for  others 
X* •.'..-  •.'^■'  -^  J    r.'-  .-.  V-  .*_^?N.    i>.  iri  :r  :V.r.I  every  responsibility 


'.*.-.'  vk.v  ,■  v—j;.  S:  .v-?::-:  vr  >:■;-; -z:>.e  l;::Ie  that  has  here 
Kv*  vi  J.  /::  :-  >  >.  b  jc:.  %.-c  .:-.::  :>^;  a  :Vlr  recognition  of  it  is 
css^r!:\u  :?  ^-^  -v^vrx-vi  v-  ^f  i.;o::u:^  Eliofs  future  career  and 
Horv  I:  >  >j^-  :.>  /.x^:::  :" :::  :>,:-o  w.uld  rave  been  no  George 
t..o:  -.;o  .:  r.o:  Nv::  :o:  :ro  cx.-^-  vior..-:  r.Lii-.-r.ship  that  grew  up, 
and  co:y.:rv,:A:  :..'.  J.eath  'Airtcvi  ir.ir.:.  ^^twe^r.  M.in-  Ann  E^-ans  and 
Ci^^Z'^,:  Her^ry  I  ewes.  A  M:>s  Fv.^r.<  ihoro  would  have  been,  and 
pcr'.\i"s  .1  M:^  So.r.oboviv,  who  ir.i^h:  hj.ve  done  brilliant  and 
original  work  i:\  literature,  advanoir^-  froni  the  Translating  of  German 
treatises  and  the  writing  of  review  articles  to  the  production  of 
valuable  novels,  poems,  philosophical  and  political  essays,  and  what 
not ;  but  the  peculiar  outcome  of  genius  for  which  George  Eliot  is 
eminent  would  hardly  have  been  possible.  George  Eliot's  influence 
on  Lewes  was  greater  and  worthier  than  his  on  her.    She  rescuecl 


George  Eliol. 

Inm  ftom  the  low  state  into  which  he  had  fallen,  encouraged  him  to 

write  his  "  Life  of  Goethe,"  and  to  progress  from  such  lucid  popu- 

Iwisings  of  science  as  his  "  Physiology  of  Common  Life  "  to  such 

bold  speculations  in  psychology  as  were  made  in  his  "Problems 

of  life  aod  Mind."     But  George  Eliot  was  also  stimulated  by  Lewes, 

Jad  if  the  counsel  she  received  from  him  was  not  always  of  the  wisest — 

if  also,  and  yet  more,  her  exceptional  relations  with  him  excluded  her 

from  much  society  that  would  otherwise  have  been  helpful  and  welcome, 

'«n<J  ihus  warped  some  of  her  interests  and  restricted  her  vision  of  the 

'World  and  its  actual  complications — it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that, 

luj  she  lived  on  in  unmarried  solitude  or  become  the  wife  of  a  less 

XJDjenial  husband,  her  genius  would  have  yielded  such  good  and 

ibundant  fruit  as  straightway  began  to  appear. 

Miss  Evans  had  always  been  a  keen  and  reverent  student  of 

lUman  thoughts  and  actions,  as  exhibited  in  the  hves  of  those  with 

'horn  she  was  in  contact,  and  of  nature  in  all  its  forms  and  moods. 

thehid  also  dabbled  in  science,    Herzealous  participation  in  Lewes's 

*»ysiological  and  psychological  studies,  however,  evidently  gave  fresh 

nrapeius  lo  her  intellectual  activity ;  and  the  assistance  she  thus 

red  from  him  was  of  higher  quality,  if  not  of  more  practical 

:,  than  the  inducement  that   no   less  manifestly  came  through 

•n  to  put  her  extraordinary  talents  to    the   best  marketable  use. 

nbuainesslike  as  Lewes    was   in    many  ways,    he   had   plenty   of 

***fe>Kiness  and  tact  in  enabling  his  helpmate  to  contribute  to  the 

^^tiily  exchequer,  from  which  provision  had  to  be  found  not  only  for 

'"fi  education  of  his  children,  who  soon    learnt  to  regard  her  as 

"Mother,  but  also  for  the  support  of  their  own  discarded  mother.     "  It 

"^  always  been  a  vague  dream  of  mine,"  we  read  in  one  of  George 

I'Ot's  memoranda,  "  that  some  time  or  other  I  might  write  a  novel, 

^d  my  shadowy  conception  of  what  the  novel  was  to  be  varied, 

^^  Course,  from  one  epoch  of  my  Hfe  to  another."      But  only  "  an 

"'troductory  chapter  describing  a  Staffordshire  village  and  the  life  of 

"e  neighbouring  farmhouses  "  was  written,  until,  many  years  after- 

^ds,  the  manuscript  having  been  shown  to  Lewes,  "  he  was  struck 

^Ol  it  as  a  bit  of  concrete  description."    "  By-and-by,"  George  Eliot 

lively  adds,  "  when  we  came  back  to  England,  and  I  had  greater 

^Ccess  than  he  ever  expected  in  other  kinds  of  writing,  his  impression 

''at  it  was  worth  while  to  see  how  far  my  mental  power  would  go 

*^^ards  the  production  of  a  novel  was  strengthened.     He  began  to 

^y  very  positively,  '  You  must  try  and  write  a  story.' " 

The  result  of  that   guidance  was  "The  Sad  Fortunes  of  the 
■^^ereud  Amos  Barton,"  begun  in  September  1856,  and  published, 


I 


266  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

as  the  first  of  the  ''  Scenes  from  Clerical  Life,"  at  the  b^^niung  of 
1857.  "Mr.  Gilfil's  Ix)ve-Story"  and  "Janefs  Repentance"  iU- 
lowed  ;  then  "  Adam  Bede" ;  and  the  success  of  George  Eliot,  as  the 
authoress  decided  henceforth  to  call  herself^  in  such  novel-writiiig 
as  was  sure  to  bring  her  both  fame  and  money,  was  assured. 

It  is  plain  that  not  a  little  of  Lewes's  satisfaction  in  this  fresh  dis- 
closure of  his  companion's  literary  skill  grew  out  of  its  pecuniary 
value.  But  there  was  nothing  degrading  in  that,  and  if  Geoige  Eliot 
shared  his  feeling  in  this  respect  to  the  extent  of  rejoicing  that  she 
now  had  the  prospect  of  increasing  the  comfort  of  those  dear  to  her, 
the  more  exalted  satisfaction  derived  from  the  doing  of  good  work, 
for  the  work's  own  sake,  which  chiefly  prompted  her,  was  duly  and 
sufficiently  echoed  by  him.  "  I  am  very  happy,"  she  wrote  in  June 
1857,  to  one  of  the  friends  who  clung  to  her,  "happy  in  the  highest 
blessing  life  can  give  us,  the  perfect  love  and  sympathy  of  a  nature 
that  stimulates  my  own  to  healthful  activity.  I  feel,  too,  that  all  the 
terrible  pain  I  have  gone  through  in  past  years,  partly  from  the  defects 
of  my  own  nature,  partly  from  outward  things,  has  probably  been  a 
preparation  for  some  special  work  that  I  may  do  before  I  die." 

There  was  more  in  that  sentence  than,  perhaps,  the  writer  thought 
of  when  she  penned  it.  Condemned  by  the  frowns  of  all  but  the  few 
who  either  approved  or  excused  her  arrangement  with  Lewes,  evai 
more  than  by  her  chronic  ailments,  to  abstain  from  much  intercourse 
with  the  people  around  her,  she  had  to  go  back  to  her  youthful 
recollections  and  associations  for  the  material  of  the  novels  on  which 
she  was  busy  till  the  close  of  1 860.  There  was  plenty  6i  invention  and 
original  fancy  in  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  "  and  "  Silas  Mamer,"  as  well 
as  in  their  forerunners ;  but  her  own  reminiscences  furnished  the  basis 
of  her  earlier  stones  and  much  of  their  superstructure,  and  even  in 
"  Felix  Holt,"  in  "  Middlemarch,"  and  in  "  Daniel  Deronda,"  the  same 
material  was  freely,  if  less  easily,  drawn  upon.  Building  her  novels 
out  of  incidents  that  she  had  herself  seen  or  heard  about,  enriching 
them  with  an  abundance  of  fresh  humour  and  much  sound  philosophy, 
moreover,  she  made  them  all,  in  divers  ways,  exponents  of  her  own 
deep  feelings  and  strong  impulses,  the  pains  and  the  pleasures,  the 
joys  and  the  agonies  that,  in  the  happier  and  perhaps  calmer  stage  of 
life  in  which  she  now  found  herself,  were  still  the  components  of  aU 
that  was  best  and  most  real  in  her  moral  and  mental  constitution.  In 
this  connection  a  few  lines  from  "  A  Minor  Prophet,"  oneof  her  least 
known  poems,  and  not  otherwise  very  admirable,  written  in  1869^ 
should  be  quoted.     "  I  cleave,"  she  said, 


George  Eliot. 


To  NiUurc's  blunders,  evanescent  lypes. 

Which  tagcsbanisb  from  ULopia. 

''  Not  worship  beauty  ?  "  siy  you.     Pnticnce,  friend 

I  worship  in  lie  temple  wilh  the  rest ; 

But  by  my  bcaith  t  keep  a  sacred  nuoli 

For  gnomes  and  dwai^  duck -footed  waddling  elvers, 

Who  Hitched  and  hammered  {i>i  Ihe  weary  man 

In  days  of  old.     And  in  thai  piety 

I  dolbe  ungainly  forms  inberited 

From  toiling  generations,  daily  benl 

At  desV,  OT  plough,  or  loom,  or  in  the  mine, 

In  pioneering  labours  for  the  world. 

Nay,  I  am  apt,  when  Qoundering  confused 

From  too  nuh  flight,  to  grasp  at  paradox  ; 

And  pity  future  men  who  will  not  know 

A  leen  experience  with  pity  blent, 

The  pathos  eiquisite  of  lovely  minds 

Hid  in  harsh  forms— not  penetrating  them 

LiXe  tire  divine  within  a.  common  bush 

Which  grows  transfigured  by  the  heavenly  guest, 

Ho  that  men  put  their  ^boes  off;  hut  encaged 

Like  a  iweel  child  within  some  thick-walled  cell, 

Who  leaps  and  fails  to  hold  the  window  bars, 

But,  having  shown  a  little  dimpled  hand. 

Is  visited  thenceforth  by  tender  hearts 

Whose  eyes  keep  walcb  about  the  prison  walls. 

These  liaes  charrningly  indicate  the  appreciative  sympathy  with 

liiiehGeo^c  Eliot  regarded  much  in  the  mass  of  hiimankiod  which 

"Mgbllessorsuperciliousonlookers  are  prone  to  ignore  or  to  despise. 

■Atlest  eighty  out  of  a  hundred  of  your  adult  male  fellow-Britons, 

'""Wied  in  the  last  census,"  she  wrote  in  "  Amos  Barton,"  her  first 

^i"are  neitlier  extraordinarily  silly,  nor  extraordinarily  wicked, 

W  Otiaordinarily  wise  ;  their  eyes  are  neither  deep  and  liquid  with 

"hment,    nor   sparkling    with    suppressed  witticisms ;    they   have 

iWbaWy  had  no  iiair- breadth  escapes  or  thrilling  adventures ;  their 

U  are  certainly  not  pregnant  with  genius,  and  their  passion  shave 

•"t  manifested  themselves  at  all  after  the  fashion  of  a  volcano.     They 

^^  (imply  men  of  complesions  more  or  less  muddy,  whose  convetsa- 

*"!  is  more  or  less  bald  and  disjointed.     Vet  these  commonplace 

P*ople — many  of  them — bear  a  conscience,  and  have  felt  the  sublime 

P'onjpting  to  do  the  painful  right ;  they  have  their  unspoken  sorrows 

f^d  their  sacred  joys  ;  their  hearts  have,  perhaps,  gone  out  to  their 

.^t-bom,  and  they  have  mourned  over  the  irreclaimable  dead.  Nay, 

there  not  a  pathos  in  their  very  insignificance — in  our  comparison 

their  dim  and  narrow  existence  with  the  glorious  possibilities  of 

*t  human  nature  which  they  share?     Depend  upon  it,  you  would 


I 


268  The  Gentlcmafis  Magazine. 

gain  unspeakably  if  you  would  learn  with  me  to  see  some  of  the 
poetry  and  the  pathos,  the  tragedy  and  the  comedy,  \jai%  in  the 
experience  of  a  human  soul  that  looks  out  through  dull  grey  eyes,  and 
that  speaks  in  a  voice  of  quite  ordinary  tones." 

Here  we  have  the  key  to  the  most  persistent  motive  and  the 
prevailing  method  of  all  George  Kliot's  fiction.  Even  her  heroes  and 
heroines  are  nearly  always  commonplace  persons,  and  tlie  scores  of 
other  men  and  women,  young  and  old,  who  people  the  world  that 
she  creates  out  of  altogether  human  materials  are  each  and  all  of 
them  commonplace  persons.  None  are  wholly  good  or  wholly  bad; 
all  are,  as  we  see  in  real  life,  mixtures  of  good  and  bad,  in  whose 
worthiest  deeds  we  are  called  upon  to  discern  and  to  deplore  some 
flaws,  and  whose  worst  weaknesses,  follies,  and  crimes  are  shown  to 
have  traces  of  virtue.  Speaking  in  her  own  voice  or  through  her 
diflercnt  characters,  George  Eliot  always  preaches  or  illustrates  the 
same  broad,  generous  view  of  human  life,  and  ever  with  the  purpose 
of  urging  us  to  be  tender  to  our  neighbours,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to 
be  wary  in  mending  our  own  habits  and  choosing  our  own  ways  in 
life  with  as  much  good  sense  as  we  can  command. 

George  Eliot's  novels  are  all  love  stories  in  a  broader  sense  than 
most  other  romance  writers*.  "  Blessed  influence  of  one  true  loving 
human  soul  on  another,"  she  exclaims  in  "Janet's  Repentance,* 
"  not  calculable  by  algebra,  nor  deducible  by  logic,  but  mysteriousi 
effectual,  mighty  as  the  hidden  process  by  which  the  tiny  seed  is 
quickened  and  bursts  forth  into  tall  stem  and  broad  leaf  and  glowing 
tasselled  flower  !  Ideas  are  often  poor  ghosts ;  our  sun-filled  eyes 
cannot  discern  them  ;  they  pass  athwart  us  in  thin  vapour,  and 
cannot  make  themselves  felt.  But  sometimes  they  are  made  flesh ; 
they  breathe  upon  us  with  warm  breath,  they  touch  us  with  soft, 
responsive  hands,  they  look  at  us  with  sad,  sincere  eyes,  and  speak  to 
us  with  appealing  tones ;  they  are  clothed  in  a  living,  human  soul, 
with  all  its  conflicts,  its  faith,  and  its  love.  Then  their  presence  is  a 
power,  then  they  shake  us  like  a  passion,  and  we  are  drawn  after 
them  with  gentle  compulsion,  as  flame  is  drawn  to  flame." 

The  sort  of  romance  with  which  George  Eliot  brilliantly,  but  not 
garishly,  illuminates  her  world  of  commonplace  is  hinted  at  in  those 
words.  The  most  prosaic  life  becomes  poetic,  the  rudest  instrument 
can  pour  forth  melody,  when  love  strikes  the  note — not  merely  the 
passion  with  which  so  many  novelists  chiefly  concern  themselves, 
though  to  that  George  Eliot  gives  full  recognition  as  one  of  the 
mightiest  forces,  perhaps  the  mightiest — but  love  of  all  sorts,  the  love 
between  parent  and  child,  between  brother  and  sister,  between  friend 


:iDd  friend.  George  Eliofs  love-stories,  as  such,  and  apart  from 
ihe  accessories  of  the  central  thread  of  eacli,  have  seldom  been 
malched  for  tmthfiilness  and  wholesomeness.  Each  of  the  three 
"Scenes  of  Clerical  Life "  gives  notable  evidence  of  the  subtlety 
lad  wisdom  with  which  the  author  analyses  the  di/Terent  phases  of 
wman's  character  under  conditions  that  submit  it  to  the  severest 
Itiain,  and  "  Janet's  Repentance,"  short  as  it  is,  contains,  especially  in 
tliisnspect,  some  of  George  Eliot's  finest  work.  In  "Adam  Bede' 
le  have  broader  and  more  complicated  studies  of  the  same  soi 
Another  sort  appears  in  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,"  which,  amid  mucb' 
(ijt  thai  is  admirable  and  pathetic,  presents  a  perfect  memoir  of 
girl's  mental  and  spiritual  development  amid  circumstances,  all 
eoditly  natural  in  themselves,  which  might  seem  to  have  been 
specially  designed  for  the  making  and  marring  of  her  character. 
Different  again,  yet  equally  true  botli  to  nature  and  to  art,  is  "  Silas 
Haiiier,"  unfolding  a  beautifully  impressive  love-story  between  the 
birdljf-uscd,  and  all  but  ruined,  weaver  and  the  little  waif  who  rescues 
'lin  b-om  perdition  and  whom  he  makes  happy  as  his  adopted 
^tighter. 

"Silas  Mamer"  concluded  tlie  first  series  of  George  Eliot's  novels, 
Hid  the  one  which,  with  the  exception  of  "  Romola,"  comprised  her 
Iwl  work  as  a  novelist-  All  in  that  series  came  from  her  heart 
^nianeously,  or  with  as  much  spontaneity  as  was  possible  under 
Aepressure  of  publishers'  demands  and  of  an  honest  and  honourable 
Jtsire  to  use  the  opportunity  now  offered  for  securing  a  modest  com- 
Pflency  and  protection  from  all  risk  henceforth  of  poverty  to  herself 
"'  to  those  dependent  on  her.  After  that,  or  after  the  writing  of 
"Somola,"  authorship  was  much  more  of  a  business  with  her.  So 
'"fJs,at  any  rate,  with  "  Felix  Holt,"  "Middlemarch,"and  "Daniel 
"sTonda."  Her  writing  of  these  later  novels  was  quite  allowable, 
^dif  she  was  induced  to  write  them  by  motives  quite  as  exalted  as 
^y  that  prevail  with  nine-tenths  of  the  authors  who  live  by  their  pen, 
j^'^  put  into  them  more  zealous  and  hearty  work  than  any  but  a  very 
successful  authors  can  be  credited  with.  But  for  all  that,  and 
ithstanding  all  their  great  merits,  they  were  in  the  nature  of  task- 

'V  It  would  seem  that  she  had  well-nigh  exhausted  all  the  stores 
**  Oiaterial  for  prose  fiction  that  came  naturally  and  readily  to  her. 
'^r  preference  was  now  for  poetry  and  for  such  didactic  utterances 

fitted  best  with  her  mature  life  and  her  altered  position  as  one  of 
'^  recognised  and  honoured  leaders  of  thought. 

Something  must  be  said,  however,  about  "  Romola,"  which  many 
°*  her  admirers  regard  as  the  best  of  all  her  novels,  and  which  certainly 


'h, 


iJ 


270  The  Gentlemafis  Magazine. 

was  the  one  with  which  she  took  most  loving  pains.  In  it,  under  a 
genuine  inspiration,  and  with  a  worthy  ambition  to  achieve  succea 
in  a  department  of  fiction  difTorent  from  that  in  which  she  consideied 
that  she  had  done  nearly  all  she  could  do  satisfactorily^  she  threw 
herself  back  with  wonderful  energy  into  the  world  of  mediaeval 
thought  and  action  which  had  Florence  for  its  centre  and  Savonarola 
for  its  great  reformer ;  and,  witli  ama/ing  realism  of  detail  and 
vigour  of  comprehensive  grouping,  tracked  out  through  the  maze  of 
antique  movements  and  conceptions  the  beautiful  and  pathetic  stoiy 
of  a  heroine,  from  whose  character  and  surroundings  we  are  taught 
in  most  impressive  terms  to  see,  as  it  has  been  said,  that  '^  acceptance 
of  a  wider  duty  gives  purpose  and  meaning  to  a  life  that  has  missed 
its  private  chord."  This  was  no  slight  achievement ;  and  the  two 
journeys  to  Italy  which  were  undertaken  on  account  of  it,  the  reading 
of  hundreds  of  books  in  order  that  slie  might  obtain  complete  masteiy 
of  her  subject,  and  ever>'thing  else  that  she  did  in  brave  furtherance 
of  her  purpose,  were  well  paid  for  by  the  result  But  the  cost  was 
heavy.  **  I  remember  my  wife  telling  me,"  says  Mr.  Cross,  "how 
cruelly  she  suffered  from  working  under  a  leaden  weight  at  this  time. 
The  wTiting  of  *  Romola '  ploughed  into  her  more  than  any  of  her 
other  books.  She  told  me  she  could  put  her  fmger  on  it  as  marking 
a  well-defined  transition  in  her  life.  In  her  own  words,  *  I  began  it 
a  young  woman,  I  finished  it  an  old  woman.'  " 

It  is  not  strange  that,  when  George  l^^liot  went  back  to  the 
Midland  counties  in  the  nineteenth  century  and  to  the  associations  of 
her  youth  for  the  groundwork  of  fresli  novels,  they  lacked  freshness. 
"  Felix  IIoll,''  whatever  its  value  a.s  a  political  treatise,  was  as  a  novel 
much  inferior  to  **  Romola,"  the  main  lesson  of  which  it,  to  some 
extent,  repeated  and  modernised.  In  "  Middlemarch,"  with  hardly 
less  skill  in  the  mastery  of  details  tlian  we  find  in  "  Romola,"  and 
with  far  more  varied  strengtli  in  the  delineation  of  diverse  human 
passions,  commonplace  and  rare,  George  Eliot  made  a  unique  study 
of  some  social  conditions  of  the  present  day,  especially  as  they 
mightily  affect,  and  are  very  feebly  affected  by,  the  temper  and 
conduct  of  such  a  modern  Saint  Theresa  as  she  might  have  herself 
aspired  to  be  in  her  Warwickshire  years ;  but  there  was  over-wrought 
subtlety  in  the  doleful,  fatalistic  lesson  conveyed  by  her  record  of  the 
sad  and  well-nigh  wasted  life  of  Dorothea.  And  "  Daniel  Deronda" 
shows  yet  more  excess  of  psychological  elaboration  and  artificiality 
in  the  portraiture  of  another  luckless  heroine,  Gwendolen,  with  the 
inimitably  drawn,  but  to  many  readers  hardly  attractive  Jew  reformer, 
for  its  hero.     George  Eliot  did  well  in  not  venturing  on  further 


Ueorge  Eliot. 

nonl-wTtdiig  after  "Daniel  Deronda"  was  finished.  The  peculiar 
pungency  of  satire  and  fierceness  of  humour  that  show  themselves  on 
nesrly  every  page  of  "  The  Impressions  of  Theophrastus  Such  "  were 
a  more  suitable  ending  of  her  work  as  an  author. 

Hei  poems,  escellent  as  some  of  them  are,  and  curiously  in- 
liicjtive  as  they  ail  are  of  many  of  her  moods  during  the  years  in 
nhich  ihey  were  initten,  need  not  be  commented  on  here.  Nor  is 
itnecessary  to  supplement  the  brief  review  which  has  been  given  of 
ler  career  up  to  the  time  when  she  became  famous,  by  tracing  her 
Be  during  the  remaining  iwo-and-twenty  years.  All  the  assistance 
jvm  by  Mr.  Cross's  volumes  towards  a  proper  understanding  of 
tuii  stage  and  phase  in  this,  for  the  most  part,  happier  and  more 
|tosperous  period,  is  welcome  and  full  of  instruction.  Oeorge  Eliot 
Wsmore  than  a  great  writer,  and  the  powerful  influence  that  she 
emted  on  contemporary  thought  and  action  by  her  converse  with  a 
luge  and  ever-growing  circle  of  friends,  as  well  as  by  her  books,  was 
tK  important  a  factor  in  our  social  and  intellectual  development  for 
•J  though tfiil  observer  to  lose  sight  of.  But  these  matters  stand 
ifwt  from,  however  they  may  be  related  to,  the  consideration  of  her 
Own  education  as  an  author. 

The  conventional  prejudices  which  were  shocked  by  George 
Eliofs  relationship  with  George  Henry  Lewes  were,  to  a  large  extent, 
tikened,  if  they  were  not  overcome,  by  the  loyalty  and  persistence 
*illi  which  that  relationship  was  maintained  to  the  last  ;  and  they 
*Be  well-nigh  propitiated  by  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Cross  in  May 
iMo,  nearly  eighteen  months  after  Lewes's  death,  and  barely  more 
4m  seven  months  before  her  own  death  on  December  22,  1880,  It 
■swll  that  it  was  so,  if  thereby  any  portion  of  the  reading  world  is 
tWOnraged  to  accept  more  readily,  and  to  profit  more  largely  by,  the 
(""e  and  noble  teachings  in  morality  and  in  nearly  every  branch  of 
■'Q'l  wisdom  that  are  abundantly  and  beautiftilly  uttered  in  the 
"Wngs  of  this  woman  of  genius. 

H,  R.  FOX  BOURNE, 


I 


272  ^'^^  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


SOME  USES  OF  SERPENTS. 

PROBABLY  the  most  important  use  to  which  serpents  are  put 
man,  the  world  over,  is  as  food — repugnant  as  that  idea 
to  a  civilised  palate.     That  the  flesh  and  eggs  of  crocodiles,  turtle^ 
lizards,  and  frogs  are  eaten,  is  well  known  ;  then  why  not  that  «:»f 

snakes?     As  a  matter  of  fact,  serpents  arc  welcomed  to  the  larders 

if  so  unctuous  a  word  will  consent  to  represent  stores  so  lean  !^of 
many  barbarians.  The  Rev.  J.  I,.  Krape  writes  of  the  Dokers,  crf 
East  Africa,  that  they  let  their  nails  grow  as  long  as  those  of  the 
vultures,  explaining  that  they  "  are  used  in  digging  for  ants,  and  in 
tearing  to  pieces  the  serpents  which  they  devour  raw."  I  hedtate  K> 
believe  that  he  saw  this  witli  his  own  eyes. 

In  the  Far  East  and  Polynesia,  such  meat  has  always  been 
article  of  diet,  the  Andamancse,  for  instance,  liking  the  sea-snak^^ 
though  refusing  terrestrial  species.  The  Karens  of  Burma  a*** 
South  Australians  offer  further  instances,  while  this  kind  of  food  t»a* 
long  been  accepted  by  the  poorer  classes  of  China. 

In  the  Americas,  north,  south,  and  central,  most  of  the  naii'** 
races  ate  serpent-flesh — some  from  choice,  like  the  Eraiiliam. 
others,  occasionally,  in  a  ceremonial  way,  like  the  Mexicans  a-X»i 
Califotnians  ;  and  many,  to  fight  famine  during  periods  of  scarci*?' 
The  rattlesnake,  especially,  has  been  an  article  of  food  from  one  s»*^' 
of  the  continent  to  the  other  ;  but  this  is  partly  owing  to  the  suj>C[- 
stitious  regard  the  aborigines  of  the  United  States  had  {and  have)  f*^ 
this  striking  reptile,  coupled  with  the  notion  which  belongs  to  m**" 
primitive  men,  that  one's  mind  and  temperament  are  inftuenced  tjy 
the  moral  qualities  of  what  is  assimilated  into  the  blood,  a  noli*^" 
which  lies  at  the  foundation  of  nearly  all  cannibalism.  Theci>*' 
ning  spitefulness  and  certainty  of  the  rattlesnake  seem  desirable  i/"*" 
tues  to  a  Red  Indian,  hence  he  eats  the  snake  on  certain  occasic^^"*! 
to  acquire  them.  Many  tribes  have  dances  and  ceremonies  in  wh*"* 
the  Crotalus  forms  a  part.  The  subject  of  the  symbolism,  religic^ 
significance,  and  world-wide  use  of  serpents  in  sacred  rites, 
too  large  and  involved  to  enter  upon  in  this  connection,  howev- 
and  I  only  allude  to  it  in  order  to  say,  that  at  the  conclusion 


Some  Uses  of  Serpents. 


1 

;aien.     Alonff         ■ 


these  ceiemoDies,  in  some  inslances,  the  snakes  are  eaten.  Along 
the  coast  of  Southern  California,  however,  according  to  Bancroft, 
all  snakes  except  the  rattler,  were  held  to  be  edible.  As  for  the 
Piuies  of  the  Utah  Basin,  whose  food-supply  was  limited,  and 
wliose  tastes  were  more  degraded,  perhaps,  than  those  of  any  other 
t)[  ihe  native  races  of  North  America,  they  were  accustomed  to  im- 
pale the  living  snake  lengthwise  on  a  stick,  and  hold  it  writhing  over 
L  ihe  lire  until  it  was  broiled  (Powers  Smith's  report,  1876,  p.  453). 
I  John  Josselyn,  tlenL,  in  one  of  his  quaint  old  books  published 

about  1672,  in  regard  to  New  England,  records  that  the  New  Eng- 
land Indians,  "when  weary  with  travelling,"  would  take  up  rattle- 
mates  with  their  bate  hands,  "  laying  hold  with  one  hand  behind  their 
head,  with  the  other  taking  hold  of  their  tail,  and  with  their  teeth  tear 
off  theskin  of  their  backs  and  feed  upon  them  alive  ;  which,  they  say, 
nfreshelh  them."  Charlevoix,  an  even  older  writer,  says  the  Indians 
^Canada  (of  his  day)  "chase  it  and  find  its  (lesh  very  good,  I  have 
trtD  heard  some  Fien(hmen,  who  had  tasted  it,  say  that  it  was  not 
Seating." 

An  old  negro  once  told  me  that  many  of  the  plantation  hands  in 
Alabama  and  Mississippi  were  accustomed  to  eat  rattlesnakes,  now 
*id  theiL  This,  loo,  might  have  had  some  superstition  in  it,  how- 
wet,  though  the  Central  Africans  are  credited  with  making  food  of 
llie  huge  serpents  which  prowl  in  their  hot  forests,  particularly  the'' 
Wihon, 

When  at  Picolala,  Eastern  Florida,  near  the  end  of  the  last  cen- 
"")',  the  wise  writer  of  "  Bartram's  Travels  "  himself  killed  an  un- 
■xiaily  long  rattlesnake  and  dragged  it  into  ihe  setdement.     "The 
"iveiiture,"  says  Bartram,  "  soon  reached  the  ears  of  the  commander, 
"•oseni  an  officer  to  request  that,  if  the  snake  had  not  bitten  himself, 
night  have  him  served  up  for  his  dinner ;  I  readily  delivered  up 
body  to  the  cooks,  and  being  that  day  invited  to  dine  at  the 
'"eraor's  table,  saw  the  snake  served  up  in  several  dishes.  Governor 
"•^nt  being  fond  of  the  flesh  of  the  rattlesnake ;  I  tasted  it,  but  I 
'^lld  not  swallow  it." 

I  remember  hearing,  quite  lately,  of  a  denizen  of  the  marshes  along 
"•e  N'orlh  Carolina  coast,  who,  when  he  couldn't  get  oysters,  always 
*^  snakes — "  they  are  as  good  as  eels,"  he  would  assert. 

That  serpents  should  figure  in  the  primitive  pharmacopceia  (which 
"^  <3ictated  chiefly  by  superstition  and  whim)  is  natural.  Connected 
*'th  the  worshipful  regard  and  veneration  in  which  serpents  are  held 
y  savage  men  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  we  find  that  this  animal 
'ten  largely  into  the  list  of  amulets  and  charms,  and  that  it  forms 

TOU 


i 


2  74  '^^^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

one  of  the  most  universal  implements  in  the  mjrstic  equipment  of 
medicine-men,  fetish -conjurers,  and  rain-doctors,  the  world  around. 
Among  the  African  Marutse  medicine-bags  are  cut  from  the  skin  of 
the  python  ;  they  also  wear  chest-bands  and  waist-bands  of  boa  or 
other  snake's  skin.  Krape  says  that  the  chief  ornament  of  the  East 
Africans  is  the  spine  of  a  snake  worn  round  the  neck ;  and  that  the 
natives  of  Fernando  To,  male  and  female,  wear  as  an  ornamental  belt 
its  strung  vertebrce.  1 1  is  stated  by  Peter  Jones,  the  interpreter  Long, 
and  others,  that  when  the  Ojibways  went  to  war,  each  took  a  black 
water-snake,  pulled  out  its  teeth,  tied  head  and  tail  together,  and 
fastened  it  round  his  body.  This  soon  killed  it,  but  the  warriors 
continued  to  wear  these  horrible  belts  until  the  end  of  the  foray.  In 
a  similar  way,  according  to  lirickell,  the  Indians  of  North  Carolina 
wore  "  girdles  or  sashes  "  of  the  skin  of  the  king-snake — the  most 
powerful  one  they  knew,  for  it  was  able  to  kill  even  the  dreaded  rattler. 

All  tliis  was  undoubtedly  prompted  by  superstition,  and  much  of 
a  piece  with  the  Ojibway's  custom  of  carrying  the  poison  of  a  rattle- 
snake to  battle  in  a  box  or  bag  as  a  charm  ;  but  serpents  have  con- 
tributed largely  to  the  world's  stock  of  alleged  medicines  employed  in 
regular  practice.  The  bodies  of  snakes,  after  removal  of  the  viscera, 
are  dried  in  China  and  mixed  with  other  drugs  in  order  to  make  them 
more  effective  ;  since,  from  the  serpent's  habit  of  hiding  in  crevices, 
it  is  argued  and  believed  that  this  element  causes  the  whole  mixture 
to  penetrate  to  the  utmost  recesses  of  the  body.  In  the  Fukien 
])rovincc  of  China,  as  appears  from  the  drug  collection  at  the  United 
States  National  Museum  at  Washington,  snake-skin,  powdered,  is 
apj)lied  to  relieve  itching  in  cutaneous  diseases,  for  piles,  &c.  The 
gall  of  the  boa,  and,  perhaps,  other  species,  is  administered  internally. 

In  America  the  rattlesnake  stands  especially  high  as  an  effecti^'e 
curative,  just  as  the  viper  has  for  centuries  held  an  important  place 
in  the  popular  pharmacy  of  the  Old  World.  Laskiel  wrote  :  "  The 
flesh  of  the  rattlesnake,  dried  and  boiled  to  a  broth,  is  said  to  be 
more  nourishing  than  that  of  the  viper,  and  of  service  in  consump- 
tions.    Their  gall  is  likewise  used  as  a  medicine The  skin 

usually  shed  by  rattlesnakes,  is  dried  and  pounded  fine  by  the 
Indians,  who  use  it  internally  for  many  purposes."  John  Carver 
records  that  the  Ojibways  extracted  splinters  by  means  of  its  cast 
skin.  *'  It  is  amazing,''  he  exclaims,  "  to  see  the  sudden  efficacy  of 
this  application,  notwithstanding  there  docs  not  appear  to  be  the 
least  moisture  remaining  in  it."  In  his  curious  "  Natural  History  of 
North  Carolina,"  Brickell  also  refers  to  this  point.  "  These  snakes," 
he  says,  "  cast  their  skins  every  year,  and  commonly  remain  near  the 


Same  Uses  of  Serpents.  275 

place  where  the  old  skin  lies.  These  cast  skins  are  frequently 
pulverised  and  given  with  good  success  in  fevers ;  so  is  the  gall, 
mixed  with  clay,  made  up  in  pills,  and  given  in  pestilential  fevers  and 
the  small-pox,  for  which  it  is  accounted  a  noble  remedy,  and  a  great 
arcanum,  which  only  some  few  pretend  to  know,  and  to  have  had  the 
first  knowledge  and  experience  of  for  many  years  ;  so  are  the  rattles 
good  to  expedite  the  birth,  and  no  doubt  but  it  has  all  those  excellent 
virtues  that  the  viper  is  endued  with." 

The  use  of  Crotalus  rattles  in  parturition  or  for  abortion  seems  to 
have  been  very  widespread  among  our  aborigines,  extending  into 
Mexico  and  far  northward.  A  Dakota  medicine-man  explained  it  by 
saying  that  the  child  heard  the  rattle,  and  supposing  the  snake  was 
coming  made  haste  to  get  out  of  its  way — a  remarkable  example  of 
hereditary  instinct !  This  is  nonsense,  of  course.  The  real  explana- 
tion of  the  custom  belongs  to  the  category  of  religious  superstition, 
as  does  a  large  part  of  savage  medical  practice. 

In  casting  its  skin  every  spring,  the  serpent  seems  to  renew  its 
life — a  marvellous  and  suggestive  thing.  No  wonder  that  the  child- 
like Indians  saw  in  this  something  supernatural,  and  stored  the  cast- 
off  skins  in  the  medicine-bag,  believing  them  endowed  with  fetishistic 
and  remedial  virtues.  "  Itself  thus  immortal,  they  thought  it  could 
impart  vitality  to  them.  So  when  the  mother  was  travailing  in  sore 
pain  and  the  danger  neared  that  the  child  would  be  born  silent,  the 
attending  women  hastened  to  catch  some  serpent  and  give  her  its 
blood  to  drink."  Among  the  red  men  of  the  New  World,  as  with 
ancient  Esculapians  in  the  Old,  it  stands  as  the  sign  of  the  remedial 
art.  Europeans  were  not  slow  in  accepting  these  Indian  ideas  of 
medicine,  and  have  been  still  slower  in  giving  them  up. 

I  have  heard,  within  very  modem  days,  of  rattlesnake's  oil  pre- 
scribed as  a  febrifuge,  and  for  divers  other  ailments,  while  its  value  in 
rheumatism  is  regarded  by  few  persons  with  doubt.  The  demand 
for  it  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  the  serpents  are  often  hunted 
systematically  in  order  that  quantities  of  their  oil  may  be  obtained. 
That  was  the  object  the  men  of  Warren  County,  New  York,  had  in 
killing  the  eleven  hundred  snakes  of  which  Dr.  Kay  gives  an  account 
Every  summer  to  this  day,  citizens  of  Portland,  Connecticut,  go  out 
to  the  Rattlesnake  Ledges  and  catch  the  reptiles  with  gaff  hooks,  the 
local  druggists  paying  them  four  dollars  an  ounce  for  the  oil,  which 
finds  ready  sale.  A  prominent  physician  in  Washington  told  me  of  a 
case,  within  his  knowledge,  where  a  man,  suffering  from  an  ulcer, 
took  a  rattlesnake  into  his  bed  with  the  vague  idea  of  somehow 
extracting  the  virulence  of  the  sore.     In  some  rural  dvs\x\cX&  <^^  ^^B>j| 


•_j      ^-,"t>\^T 


ftS    Jff^Z^JU. 


V:  '.  ■  : :  V ;..-  • !  -..-.  .-*  :  -./.i:.-  :^is  li  i  rtntdv  for  headache ; 
:'  :      .    :  •.  ..  r    '.    •  t       i-:^.  y.  zr^.zs.jzs  :f  North  Carolina, 

V  -:      ::..  •    \       v..    „-:..':■-:  v  i:  :  -.rj-v.^.-.^ic^  hjn^  the  bodvof  a 

-  .   ■ .-  -■  :  --.  :<-.  :■-  •  i    :.'.=zz\'.  .=  :rder  that  he  might 

-  ;  .  L'  :  ^:'  \  .  .  >"  i  i^_:  vii  xciJi.  and  he  did  not  take 
-::  rii  -:  ::.*-:  iii-ri.'  ::  71-.  r:e  nesh  from  the 
iii:.:  -.  :m,-.v  .-  :-:  jr-:r:  -  :':::rt  i;  hii  rnished  it.  In  the 
l.:"!—  r  .'.-  .  ■:  :;•--  ::rM  1  -jTeiifc"  in  cases  of 
:         '   — :   :  -.:   :    ^     ■   \-'  •  —•.'*:  T-.:;>.:r2r:  ind  superstition  is 

...        :—   -    V       '-: -in  r.  :"~:  ToTii  ::':he  rattlesnake 
i-  :-;:.-.::  .  .z  1^  L  r  r':..'.  2  i^i:zsz  :r.e  loison  of  its 

I 

•.-'•- '—M-r  .:"  :■=  i:j  c-res  the  bite — is  a 
- -. :  :;  :.■:—  -t  -  ■  :  :  ;  ■^— -r.-^.-zi  :,tA  :ne  handed  down 
:-.      T-     :;-     '.     -  ".  ■    -.  i:  :.-i  -^  ::  ^:o.-i5h  historians,  the 

.-.-•.  \;     .:--;.-•%:■  r  ;.:.--» -i-  :-e  :f  their  peo^rle  was 
-'v:  :    ^  ■-.  ".   "   :•■:-:  :<z\  t-f.  :»:  ?::ck>,  the  unfortunate 
I-  .        -  .     i   •  -.•  -i^i-v    .  .:  1- i  b.'.t  ::  along  the  bo<iy; 

»'-.-..  -.  -f  -.  >  •  i  -..v::"  .:'-.-c  "ir:  :f  IsMngton,  the  man 
:.       .-?   .-  ■-*:  .        ■-'.   ^-.-ir.:    ?  t^^::  sL=<      Ntw  Ea^Lind  tribes 

•  - . -:r    ■. .:  i  -    ■  i . -   -     .  " "  =  ?.-■:-•.  r  .■•-:-"<  r. :  :>.e  Drlawjres  and 

• 

V  -     • ..  -  .  -  r. .  .  --  i  ->  :::   - :    :  t  -^  ■  _- :.  i-  i  :"-e  Pouwararaies  kept 

■  •  •    ■ 

1  -.■      -■  .  ■  .:  -  :  -.  ■ i.'v  :?  r:>:em  days)  has  long 

CT.  '  -.  r  •  s.r.-i  ■■:  :■  ;  ■.-...*:.:  ..r. :..".%•  :e>:::ii:  them  on  the 
r:i.\  .  V.:.-.  \  :  ^y  A-  . -^  :'::<- ^r,  :":«  ;  ::s:->  of  the  C'rotalus, 
•.:':  T  •  .:--i—  '  ."  .  '.'~=  :  • :  l  :.-;--..•  c::-,  ir.d  the  Curucucu, 
-r  I    f'.:.-.i-:::,  ;.  i-.';  -   :  -':  '.~-  r-^-  s  J-.  "  ..v.  whose  home  is  in 

u^   .-1. 

A-  -  r.-.L.*."s  ^:'  - ..    i:  :'  .  ?::.a.'  •..:.::"    .:-  -ererits  of  oriental 

r-.-r.'.-.^y  ::^v-  ^/.i  \\>  ^  .."  :n  \ ;  j:-  :rv  .:-*  f  (\co-'atra  reciirrine 
:  LV.r  -:/>  r.'.-j--.'  -y  <  ..  ;  r  ::■.  "i".:  l\.-:".; 'o.  In  cemin  j 'arts  of 
l'..rj.:!  :":  _re  :•  >..  -i  :.'  It:  .i  r.i  ^  :'  iiv;  >:,-;.  cr.e  of  whom  for  a  fee 
wi'.l  :"j:r.:>!-.  .i  5:r..i'.".  co'jra  :.^  .ir.y  -;  !:  .ir.:.  ".vr.i  r.oviuestior.s  asked." 
A  n '. ;i :*.  v. h)  c e - : r . s  to  c o r/. ::; : :  ::: ■.: : i c r  :  ro ^ u re<  one  of  t h ese 
rcj.i.'.i-s  ar.r:  vjios  it  \\i:h:n  :i  Im:v.":  o  i.ist  lor.^  er.ov:^h  to  let  the 
hci  1  ;  rotr.-.ie  a  triile  a:  <r.c  cr.«J.  dr.o  :he  tii.  a:  the  other.  Armed 
with  this  dea-:!}-  weapon  the  murderer  creeps  souly  to  his  enemy's 
tent  at  dead  of  n:.;:::.  c^its  a  hole  in  the  wail,  and  introduces  the 

»  It  i-  a  V':ry  r'.  I  fra  ::::on  that  the  v:j:er'»  :ar  will  cure  :re  viper's  bite,  as  well 
other   evtrc  an-i  j«i:vir>.u»  Moiir.ds,  such  as  'iecp  «cra*.ches  from  a  Cat's  claws. 


So7ne  Uses  of  Serpents  277 

bamboo.  The  tortured  reptile,  careless  upon  whom  it  wreaks  its 
animosity,  strikes  its  fangs  into  the  sleeper,  then  is  withdrawn,  and 
the  assassin  steals  silently  away. 

That  arrows  and  spears  are  poisoned  with  the  venom  of  serpents, 
either  by  itself  or  in  combination,  is  well  known ;  but  how  far  the 
woorali  poison  of  Brazil  is  indebted  to  this  agent  for  its  virulence 
it  is  hard  to  tell. 

The  skins  of  serpents  have  been  put  to  a  great  diversity  of  appli- 
cations, for  some  of  which  there  is  a  constant  demand,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, among  the  Vacqueros  of  Mexico,  who  protect  with  rattlesnake 
hide  the  cantel  and  other  parts  of  their  saddles  likely  to  be  chafed 
by  the  tightened  lasso,  the  scales  forming  a  hard  and  slippery  sur- 
face better  resisting  wear  than  leather;  knife  sheaths  of  serpent- 
hide,  as  seen  among  the  natives  of  the  Gaboon-river  district  of 
Africa,  and  in  South  America  horse  trappings,  sword  scabbards,  and 
instrument  cases  are  frequently  covered  with  the  handsome  skin  of 
the  anaconda.  At  the  Centennial  Exhibition  the  Argentine  Republic 
showed  many  tanned  skins  of  snakes,  together  with  boots  of  the 
same,  and  others  tipped  with  lizard's  hide.  There  is  also  a  pair  of 
boots  in  the  United  States  National  Museum  made  of  finely  mottled 
rattlesnake  skin,  scales  outward.  In  neither  case,  however,  is  the 
effect  pleasing,  on  account  of  the  inapplicability  of  the  material  to  the 
purpose  ;  but  as  a  covering  for  sword-sheath,  small  box,  or  musical 
instrument,  the  polished  and  handsome  arrangement  of  colours  and 
scales  becomes  highly  attractive. 

For  musical  instruments,  indeed,  snake  skin  has  long  been  pre- 
ferred by  some  barbarous  makers.  At  a  meeting  of  the  Philadelphia 
Academy  of  Sciences  during  the  autumn  of  1883,  Mr.  H.  T.  Cresson 
is  reported  to  have  described  certain  musical  instruments  of  the 
ancient  Aztics — a  nation  into  whose  religion  and  political  economy 
the  serpent,  both  symbolical  and  actual,  seems  to  have  entered  with 
extraordinary  frequency.  The  huehuetl^  or  large  drum  of  the  great 
temple,  at  the  ancient  pueblo  of  Tenochtidan,  he  said,  was  covered 
with  skins  of  serpents,  and  when  beaten  could  be  heard  a  distance 
of  several  miles.  Whether  this  material  made  it  more  resonant  than 
any  other  sort  of  leather,  I  am  not  skilful  enough  to  judge.  In 
Surinam,  I  know,  the  native  drum,  which  is  shaped  like  an  inverted 
large-mouthed  bottle,  has  a  head  of  snake  skins,  with  the  scales  out- 
ward ;  and  I  have  seen  on  the  Pacific  coast  and  in  museums  a  great 
many  Chinese  and  Siamese  guitars  of  the  well-known  banjo-like 
shape,  which  were  covered  with  the  skin  of  some  large  ophidian. 
In  China  the  skin  of  the  yan-a,  a  kind  of  boa,  is  said  to  be  the  material 
piefened 


278  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

Among  the  Hupa  Indians  of  Northern  California  the  Dentalium 
shells,  which  serve  them  ns  native  money,  are  of  various  sizes  and 
degrees  of  perfe*  tncss,  some  ^llells  being  unfit  for  circulation  as  coins. 
Hence,  according  to  Mr.  Stephen  Powers,  "  real  money  is  ornamented 
with  little  scratches  and  car\ing5,  and  with  very  narrow  stripes  of  thm, 
fine  snake  skin,  wTapped  spirally  around  the  shells." 

Snakes  are  often  cmi»loyed  in  tropical  countries  as  a  sort  of 
domestic  animals.  The  ship-chandlers  of  Rio  de  Janeiro,  for 
example,  have  ea»  h  a  boa  housed  among  their  bulky  goods  to  act  as 
a  rat-catcher  ;  these  often  become  partially  tamed,  and  are  recruited 
by  menageries,  in  which  ser\'ice  they  perform  another  utility  by 
affording  an  income  to  their  owners.  Belt  and  other  writers  tell  how 
certain  species  arc  introduced  into  the  houses  of  Central  and  South 
Americans  to  clear  them  of  roaches  and  other  disagreeable  vermin  ; 
and  the  same  is  true  of  the  East  Indian  latitudes.  It  has  even  been 
done  in  more  northerly  climes,  for  I  have  a  note  that  some  years  ago 
garter  snakes  were  introduced  upon  Treat's  Island,  near  Eastport, 
Maine,  to  kill  the  mice ;  and  that  now  the  land  is  overrun  with 
them. 

lastly,  there  may  be  mentioned  as  a  human  utilization  of  serpents 
(in  addition  to  their  educational  value  in  museums),  the  horrid 
industry  of  charming  and  juggling,  by  which  so  many  miserable 
Arabs,  Hindoos,  Malays,  and  Chinese,  not  to  speak  of  the  performers 
in  our  circuses,  sustain  themselves  ;  and  also  the  earning  of  bounties 
amounting  to  many  tliousands  of  dollars  annually,  offered  by  oriental 
governments  for  the  killing  of  poisonous  reptiles — especially  the 
cobra. 

ERNFST    INGERSOLL. 


279 


SHAKESPEARE  &  NAPOLEON  III. 

SHAKESPEARE  and  Napoleon  III.  What  can  be  the  relation 
between  these  two  names  ?  the  reader  will  ask.  The  answer 
is  simple.  That  reign  which  began  in  treachery  and  ended  almost 
in  the  ruin  of  a  nation  added  to  its  other  titles  to  shame  that  of 
having  opposed  itself  to  the  glory  of  Shakespeare.  The  story  is  brief 
and  laconic  as  an  imperial  decree.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  story  of  a 
decree. 

In  1864,  the  year  of  the  Shakespeare  tercentenary,  French  litera- 
ture had  made  Shakespeare  its  own,  as  far  perhaps  as  the  genius  of 
tlie  language  and  of  the  race  permitted.  Through  the  influence  of 
the  works  of  Shakespeare,  seconded  by  that  of  Goethe,  Schiller  and 
Walter  Scott,  themselves  intellectual  children  of  Shakespeare,  the 
French  stage  had  been  emancipated  from  the  fetters  of  classical  tra- 
gedy. French  poetry  had  received  an  infusion  of  new  life,  and  a 
whole  new  literature  had  sprung  into  existence,  which  although  imita- 
tive, in  reality,  like  the  old  classical  literature  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries,  had  nevertheless  its  roots  in  modem  soil,  in  the 
soil  of  mediseval  and  modem  Europe,  and  not  in  the  stones  and  dust 
of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome.  In  1864  the  Romantic  school  had 
played  its  role ;  it  had  accomplished  a  literary  renaissance ;  it  had 
awakened  the  nation  to  a  sense  of  its  individuality,  and  to  a  knowledge 
of  its  history  in  the  novels  and  dramas  of  Dumas  ;  it  had  swept  away 
the  benumbing  tyranny-of  the  pseudo-Aristotelian  unities  and  substi- 
tuted for  them  the  liberty  of  the  drama.  The  battle  was  won.  The 
glory  of  Shakespeare  was  as  undisputed  in  France  as  in  any  country, 
and  in  the  faithful  and  excellent  translation  of  Frangois  Victor  Hugo, 
the  son  of  the  great  poet,  the  French  had  at  length  raised  a  literary 
monument  not  unworthy  of  the  great  master. 

Victor  Hugo  himself,  following  the  example  of  his  son,  took  up  his 
Shakespeare,  the  idol  of  the  generation  of  1830,  and,  with  a  view  to 
introducing  the  new  translation  which  Francois  Victor  Hugo  had 
completed  after  ten  years  of  loving  labour,  he  wrote  his  volume  called 
William  Shakespeare,  Mr.  John  Russell  Lowell  rightly  estimates 
this  curious  production  in  the  following  apostrophe, — '^M.  Hugo 


.  j«:    ^in,:lrrPLzk :  Jfzjzzzm, 


-.t.   : .--    .:  c'..    -■—■    :-     .  :r. :-::   :    v;  J-;":-:.!  Ricumric  school, 
:r:  _  .  ^.-: '.    ■"   -.-- *  .-irr.c  -    ;'::v:-r    \.':.x.i  2=,'L  Shakespeare, 

..  :..    ..  :;  •      -.      .    1"     :    .1:    1.:.':.'  --    :.::ri "izi:::  is  ihe  son. 
-   •    .-  : :.     .    .'..^  1  ..-:    -  -    wrt  1    :>..^  :c  his  :han  Will 


". ■  :  .    .V  1.:       :    .-    ;:    :    .  ? :  -    :    -i'v  i:  ?    .zc:'. re  the  j-bilee, 

.-■  -  ■--  -■"-*~t'~."'ir*  — »»  •"M'V'f  5 

::  :".  .'   .:  :'..:■.        v.^.^ :     :-.      .  ,-.:■:   :!-. :::-^.     I:   *i5,  iiidccd,  :o 

•  1   :  .;;:".   .':  .:    .- :  "  =-     i.'^T:^.    .i  '.M   I'-z ini. IT.  if  ihe  teicen- 

-:-...-    .:  r  '-■    '.  .*  -  •:  -■:  :-^':  *-~  i  -  ^'-i- i  -lir-Lr-  r^jjiiiesto,  as 

--    -  ..    z-.T'     .-;--c'.: ..-.  :r:  ..  v":  :h  Te  e.\:r3.c:  a  few 

.  .--1     ."  '- ■-  - :         .•-..'-  :.i--. :  :  :-  r  '— ir--  t^i,  N[    Victor  Hugo 

1  1     -1:  ■ .  --^f    ;-    .::  ~    't  ::™;   .:: :  I:  .  -r:  t:   ir  Li  civilisation. 

-     -  -  -    -  "   :. :.     :..*..:    L'.'.^ZTL-i.      Ce  n'eSI  TOS 

......  -.....■  i- 

■_-. :  .  .  -:  -:.-..  ;-.:  .-.---:.  .  ;:'.  .1  -  "j  .  -  -I T.:  rrj.^is:ralemcnt 
••_    :-    :-  •     .-:    ..  ;    .-     :..♦!•  -:.  rt.  :r  ;    .  i-fi'-.e  s:  cart.     II 

.;-.;.:  .     i..-.    .:    .  ;•:  ;  IT  -    ^-i   :i:u:>.e  aux  cmouons 

:,:•..    :'.:..      .:--.   -•;■::  ;.:r:::-  -:  i-x  :-:::-:i  ^ivzn:*.    Ce  sera  le 

*.        -::,-.   :-•-«:  :e  r:r:  j"'  ■.-. :.  a  i?  i:  :>.:<  ::me  a  voluntary 
-J  ....     :       ..   i  J-   .-  :  r;-.--.:..;r:  i:  •  ;_rr-T.-v  he  reiresented  to  the 

—  ■  • 

..  .':-il  }  :  .  ■.  ::.-''.:•:.'.  F:-.r.  .r  :hr  ••  :r.-  pe  s:"L^cit:on  of  outraged 
'..",''  .  .'.v:--  -  ■:  :>.:::  ':.t  -^rz'.t  :=-ec>. :«ei  :a  the  silence  that 
S  .'  -.'z:-.  ':.ii  r::-'.  izi.r.l  rii  I'r.r.r.-t.  .V/*-.-.V.'r  *V /vZ/V  and  Z/\f 
C  '':"r :.  r.iL  :mL:  a".  :  .  v::r.^er  ::ine:a:ic:i  soldiers  of  the 
!■■. . '  .'..!.:,  - :  : >. .: :  r. : :  :  r. ' .  -.v i  j  '.' :.::::  H  -: .:  d  the  father  of  all  con • 
t : .-. . ;. :  r  ■- ';  ;  .  -j *  ?. '  .:  h  e  ^  i  - 1"  - :  :h  _"'•:'..: : c-I  master  of  the  generations 
t'-.i:  :r-    . :  :i'.  n:.ir.!-.  :-:■:  -^h:!-,;  :he  err. -ire  weighed  upon  France  like 

1        ;       »■     ■    -•.      •       ■-    "    ^""        •       " 

1:  ;=  :r.:.s  :v  .:":".i  .'.>ar:i::fr  of  :•:;:  a-d  j-o*. : tic ;an,  of  artist  and 
:.!.i!ir.:hr'.'.'.^:  v  i:  r-.jk-s?  V::::r  H'.zo  .i  \'crv  delicate  subject  of  dis- 
r . :  s  V  -, '-. .  r ".  •  -. : ;  •:  o.  j ':■.:'" ':  :  f  th e  :  .: rely  '.  ;:erir>-  gl ory  of  Shake- 
;.:.'::  ',r. ,  v.-  :'. :  [  .-  :!.■  ^'.:  I'r.iz  :  o.:::c5.  Ica-t  of  all  things,  would 
1.  iV-;  L.'.r.  J.'/. J  :  .  t'.ro-.v  i".  .:  oiicjruar.t  note.  But  in  talking  and 
T'.:i\r,r.'.r.z  ri".^:-.  I .— iP.cc  jr.  J  thin^rs  French  it  has  been  said  we  must 
I.J-. -.r  f.  :.'•:*.  to  t'lk-j  ir.to  consideration  the  iw/rr::/,  •*  the  unforeseen.'* 
'1  lie  r.^.-flyi  of  th'j  I:r:per!al  rrovemment  was,  doubtless,  stupid,  but 
j/fjrl.ajis  \  ictor  Hirjo's  fricn'ls  were  not  altogether  reasonable. 

Ifo'.vf.-vcr  that  nny  be.  IViliiam  S/iakesptare  vidi'&  "puffed"  to  an 

.'iI'irriiiriK  r.vtcnt.     \'i'.tor  Hugo  himself  was,  perhaps,  only  indirectly 

rtj sponsible  for  ti>c  preliminary  rUiamcs  which  filled  the  columns  of 

^^M  ncwsj'apcrs  and  for  the  posters  that  covered  the  blank  walls  of 


I' France.  The  great  poet  lias  alw:iys  been  renowned  for  his  business 
capacity,  and  he  drove  such  hard  bargains  with  his  publisher  at  that 
time,  Lacroix,  that  he  finally  brought  the  poor  man  to  bankruptcy 
and  niin.     In  advertising  the  volume  beyond  all  measure  Lacroix 

Ivas  only  looking  after  his  own  interests. 
The  public  celebration  of  the  tercentenary  was  to  have  consisted 
in  a  banquet  and  a  special  performance  at  the  Porte  Saint- Martin 
Theatre.  The  programme  of  ihe  evening  comprised  the  Miihummer 
Xighfs  Dream,  and  M.  Paul  Meurice's  Hamlet,  the  second  version  in 
conformiiy  with  the  text  of  Siiakespeare,  and  relieved  of  the 
''tniprovements"of  Alexandre  Dumas.  The  banquet  was  announced 
to  lake  place  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  the  newspapers  of  April 
I  z,  1S64,  contained  a  paragraph  to  this  effect ; 

"A  meeting  of  writers,  authors,  dramatic  artists,  and  representa-  . 
lives  of  all  the  liberal  professions  has  been  held  witli  a  view  to 
organising  at  Paris,  for  April  23,  a  fete  on  the  occasion  of  the  300th 
anniversary  of  ihe  birth  of  Shakespeare. 

"  Have  been  nominated  members  of  the  French  Shakespearian 

Committee :    MM.   Barye,    Ch.    Bataille    (of  the    Conservatoire), 

^m   Hector   Berlioz,    Alexandre     Dumas,    Jules    Favre,    George   Sand, 

^fcThcophilc   Gautier,  Francois -Vict  or    Hugo,  jLiles  Janin,  Legouv^, 

^BLittrj,    Michelet,    Eugene    Pe  lie  tan,     Regnier    (of    the    Com^die 

^  Pran^aise).    Secretaries  :   MM.  Laurent  Pichat,  Leconte  de  Lisle, 

F"<nicien  Mallefille,  Paul  de  Saint-Victor,  Thore.     The  presidency  of 

lOTiour  was  conferred  upon  M.  Victor  Hugo." 

Both  the  banquet  and  the  performance  were  prohibited  at  the 
'^st  moment  "  par  ordre  de  I'autorite."  A  Shakespeare  banquet, 
"^'hich  had  been  organised  by  the  English  residents  in  Paris,  was 
'**eivise  prohibited  10  prevent  jealousy. 

Nevertheless,  the  PressehaA  published  the  toast  "To  Shakespeare 
^^^  to  England  "  which  Victor  Hugo  had  sent  from  Guernsey  to  be 
^ad  ai  the  banquet,  a  toast  "A  la  ii?ussite  definitive  dcs  gr.-'.nds 
'^Oinies,  et  1  la  communion  des  peuples  dans  le  progrfes  el  dans 
'd^ql ; "  Was  there  anything  seditious  in  the  speech  ?  \\'as  there 
,y  allusion,  any  phrase,  that  lent  itself  to  equivocation  ?  No.  The 
^'We  name  of  Victor  Hugo,  the  honorary  president,  was  alone  the 
r^'^se  of  the  prohibition.     The  author  of  Napoleon  le  Petit  was  the 

Sbear  of  the  Empire. 

j^     This  is  the  simple  story  of  the  prohibition  of  the  Shakespeare 

^*lquet.     It  was  announced  ;  it  was  prohibited  ;  and  there  was  an 

J^*3  of  it.    But  the  gossips  did  not  dismiss  the  matter  so  lightly.    The 

**^ofhih  and  the  opposition  were  furious ;  Emile  de  Girardin  wrote 


1 


as  severely  ironical  a  criticism  of  the  Government  as  the  Cow 
thought  proper  to  allow,  and  the  wits  spun  sprightly  yams  whi« 
revealed  something  of  what  was  going  on  behind  the  seen  ^ 
Edmond  About,  for  instance — who,  by  the  way,  was  at  thai  tim^ 
habitue  of  the  series  of  Co mpitgne— represented — very  plcasartfj 
it  must  be  confessed — the  Shakespeare  Banquet  as  an  advertiseraetn 
organised  by  the  publisher  of  William  Shakespeare,  z.%  a  "  r^dame 
en  nourriture."  "  The  scenery,"  continues  M.  About  in  his  ehroni^w 
in  the  l^ouvtlU  Retme  de  Paris,  "  the  scenery  would  liave  represented 
something  simple  and  terrible,  in  the  style  of  the  last  act  of '  Luc^ 
Borgia.'  The  president's  chair,  covered  with  a  black  veil,  was  M 
have  remained  empty,  in  order  to  remind  the  guests  of  the  exile  of 
M.  Victor  Hugo,  who  is  not  an  exile.  The  author  of  the  volumt 
had  sent  to  Paris  a  piefacc  in  the  form  of  a  toast.  ....  Unfortu- 
nately, the  Government,  which  does  not  sufficiently  count  upon  the 
force  of  ridicule,  put  an  end  to  the  fete  by  an  act  of  authority." 

It  may  interest  Shake spearians  to  read  the  toast  that  Geotge 
Sand  sent  to  be  proposed  at  the  banquet.     Here  it  is  in  the  original 

"C'est  Line  excellente  idee  que  de  ffter  les  grands  morts.  Ct 
sonl  nos  saints  et  nos  prophi;les,  i  nous  autres  ;  et  nous  de?rions 
avoir  notre  calendrier.  J  e  m'associe  de  toute  ma  foi  et  de  tout  DiOT 
cceur  i  votre  reunion.  J'y  serai  en  esprit.  Portez-y,  en  mon  noni, 
la  sanle  du  divin  Shakespeare,  celui  de  nous  lous  qui  se  portcle 
mieux,  car  il  a  triomphe  de  Voltaire  et  il  est  sorti  sain  et  sauf  de  s« 
puissantes  mains. 

"  Un  autre  jour,  nous  fcterons  Voltaire  quand-menie,  vu  qa'il  » 
triomphi^  de  bien  d'autres.  Notre  gloire  i  nous  sera  d'avoir  repUci 
nos  mailres  dans  le  meme  pantheon,  et  d'avoir  compris  que  Wi 
g^nie  vienl  du  mcme  Dieu,  le  Dieu  H  qui  tout  beau  chemin  conduit 
et  dont  la  verite  est  le  temple, 

"  Mes  respects  ou  amiii^  k  tous  nos  frferes  en  Shakespeare.— 
Geurge  Sand." 

THEiiUlJRE  CHILD. 


283 


5/y?   M^LLIAM  SIEMENS} 

I  AM  about  to  endeavour  to  set  forth  the  life  and  work  of  Sir 
William  Siemens,  who  was  not  only  an  ardent  scientific  dis- 
coverer, but  one  whose  work  for  the  last  five  or  six  years  has  interested 
the  general  public  to  a  degree  that  has  perhaps  never  before  been  the 
case  with  any  man  so  devoted  to  science  as  he  was.  Of  him  it  may 
be  said,  without  fear  of  contradiction,  that  he  has,  beyond  all  his  con- 
temporaries, promoted  the  practical  application  of  scientific  discovery 
to  industrial  purposes.  It  has  also  been  said  by  one  who  had  the 
privilege  of  his  friendship,  that  "  no  one  could  know  him  without 
feeling  how  lovely  his  character  was.  Wonderful  as  were  the  qualities 
of  his  mind,  they  were  equalled  by  the  nobleness  of  his  heart" 

These  two  sentences,  then,  will  serve  to  indicate  my  purpose.  In 
telling,  with  necessary  brevity,  the  story  of  the  life  of  Sir  William 
Siemens,  I  shall  try  to  keep  in  view  the  fact  that  even  his  great 
powers,  without  his  large  heart,  would  never  have  produced  the  im- 
pression which  he  did  upon  the  national  mind.  Hence,  after  I  have 
given  a  sketch  of  some  of  the  more  important  discoveries  of  the 
inventor,  and  their  consequences  to  the  national  life,  I  shall,  with 
the  help  of  materials  most  kindly  and  liberally  placed  at  my  disposal 
by  his  family,  try  to  show  what  manner  of  man  he  was,  and  what 
impression  he  made  upon  those  who  had  the  very  great  advantage 
of  personal  communion  with  him. 

Charles  William  Siemens  was  bom  at  Lenthe  in  Hanover  on 
April  4,  1823,  and  was  one  among  many  of  a  family  eminent  for 
their  scientific  knowledge  and  practical  skill.  The  possession  of 
such  unusual  talents  by  a  whole  family  is  rarer,  perhaps,  in  the  intel- 
lectual life  of  England  than  in  that  of  Germany ;  at  any  rate,  in  the 
absence  of  definite  statistics  such  as  those  compiled  with  so  much 
care  by  Mr.  Francis  Galton,  the  general  impression  is  that  such  is  the 
case.  It  is  not  difficult  to  discern  in  the  scientific  career  of  the 
Brothers  Siemens  some  prominent  characteristics  of  their  race  ;  and 
in  the  life  of  Sir  William,  the  sympathy  of  the  German  mind  for 

*  A  Lecture  delivered  before  the  (London)  Sunday  Lecture  Society,  January 
i3»  18S5. 


The  Gentletnans  Magazine. 

general  principles,  and  the  tenacity  with  which  it  clings  to  them,  are 
well  illustrated,  and  stand  out  in  strongly- marked  contrast  to  the 
usual  indifference  of  the  average  English  mind  to  theoretic  conclu- 
sions, as  opposed  to  so-called  practical  ones.  It  would  be  well-nigh 
impossible  to  find  among  Englishmen  one  instance  in  which  an  in- 
ventor has  been  so  confident  of  the  possible  utility  of  a  few  grand 
general  principles,  that  he  has  worked  out  from  them  se^eral  great 
inventions  ;  and  that  he  felt  himself  justified  in  this  confidence  ifier 
years  of  hard  work  is  evidenced  by  his  own  saying  that  "  the  fanbct 
we  advance,  the  more  thoroughly  do  we  approach  the  indicationiof 
pure  science  in  our  practical  results." 

William  Siemens  received  his  early  educational  training  a 
LiibecV,  and  in  the  course  of  it  the  stimulus  afforded  to  excellence  of 
workmanship  hy  the  German  guild  system  made  an  early  and  lasting 
impression  upon  his  mind,  for  he  repeatedly  referred  to  it  in  afterlife. 
Trom  Liibeck  he  went  to  the  Polytechnical  School  at  Magdeburg, 
where  he  studied  physical  science  with  apparatus  of  the  most  ptimilivt 
kind,  and  under  great  disadvantages,  as  compared  with  the  fadlitici 
of  our  modern  laboratories.  After  this  he  studied  at  Gottingen 
University,  where,  under  Wohler  and  Himly,  he  first  got  that  in- 
sight into  chemical  laws  which  laid  the  foundation  of  his  metallurgical 
knowledge,  and  here  began  to  develop  in  him  that  wonderful  thinl 
for  discovery,  which  abundant  success  never  quenched.  Here,als(i, 
occurred  what  he  has  himself  described  as  "the  determining  incident 
of  his  life."  Mr.  Elkington,  of  Birmingham,  utilising  the  discoveries 
of  Davy,  Faraday,  and  Jacobi,  had  devised  the  first  practical  appli- 
cation of  that  form  of  energy  which  we  now  call  the  electric  cunent, 
and  in  1842  he  established  a  practical  process  of  electro -plating.  I" 
the  following  year,  as  the  result  of  his  own  and  his  brother  Wemei'i 
work,  William  Siemens  presented  himself  before  Mr.  Elkington  willi 
an  improvement  in  his  process,  which  was  adopted.  This  islhefirst 
on  the  list  of  inventions  on  the  diagram  behind  me.  Speakmgsf 
his  first  landing  in  London  he  says  :— 

"I  expected  10  find  some  oflice  in  which  inventions  were  ex- 
amined, and  rewarded  if  found  meritorious  ;  but  no  one  could  dirtt' 
me  to  such  a  place.  In  walking  along  Finsbury  Pavement,  1  s»" 
written  up  in  large  letters  so-and-so  (I  forget  the  name) '  undertakei. 
and  the  thought  struck  me  that  dus  must  be  the  place  I  was  in  q'K'' 
of.  At  any  rate  I  thought  that  a  person  advertising  himself  a*  " 
undertaker  would  not  refuse  to  look  into  my  invention,  with  1  *** 
of  obtaining  forme  the  sought-for  recognition  or  reward.  On  en's" 
ing  the  place  I  soon  convinced  myself,  however,  that  i  bad  MB( 


Si/'  H'i/iiam  Siemens. 


=85 


!dedly  too  soon  for  the  kind  of  enterprise  there  contemplated, 
t  finding  myself  confronted  with  the  proprietor  of  the  establish- 
iX,  I  covered  my  retreat  by  what  he  must  have  thguglit  a  very 
(equate  excuse." 

Returning  to  Germany,  he  became  a  pupil  in  the  engine  works  of 
nt  Stolberg,  to  study  mechanical  engineering.  While  there  he 
ted  out  a  great  improvement  upon  Watt's  centrifugal  governor 
Kgulating  the  supply  of  steam  to  an  engine,  and  in  1844  he  re- 
j  England  with  his  invention,  and  soon  decided  to  stay  here. 
■  object  in  doing  so  was  lo  enjoy  the  security  which  the  English 
ent  law  afforded  to  inventors,  for  in  his  own  country  there  were 
n  no  such  laws.  This  chronometric  governor,  though  not  very 
Ecssful  commercially,  introduced  him  10  the  engineering  world  ; 
IS  originally  intended  for  steam  engines,  but  its  chief  application 
ibecn  lo  regulate  ihe  movement  of  the  great  transit  instrument  at 
Mnwich.  Then  followed  in  quick  succession  several  minor  invcn- 
))  which  met  with  varying  practical  success,  such  as  the  process  of 
Hlatic  printing,  which  was  made  the  subject  of  a  Royal  Institution 
lore  in  1845  by  Faraday  ;  a  water  meter,  which  has  since  been  in 
ieral  use  ;  an  air  pump,  &c.,  &c. 

About  this  time  the  researches  of  Joule,  Carnot,  and  Mayer  upon 
irelatioDs  between  heat  and  mechanical  work  were  attracting  much 
(niion  among  scientific  men,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-three, 
am  Siemens  adopted  the  hypothesis  now  known  as  the  dynamical 
ryol  heat.  More  than  once  I  have  drawn  attention  to  the  exact 
crical  relation  between  units  of  heat  and  units  of  work  established 
tttfjoule,  viz,,  that  771  foot-pounds  of  work  is  required  to  generate  heal 
pWgh  to  raise  the  temperature  of  1  lb.  of  water  1"  Fah.,  and  I  have 
fcnied  out  here  and  elsewhere  that  this  was  the  first  well-authen- 
Blted  example  of  that  grandest  of  modern  generalisations,  the 
pttrine  of  the  Conservation  of  Energy,  the  tnith  of  which  is  con- 
^wly  receiving  new  illustrations. 

With  a  mind  thoroughly  pervaded  by  this  important  principle, 
Siemens  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  steam  and  caloric  engines, 
"id  saw  at  once  that  there  was  an  enormous  difference  between  the 
''eoretical  and  the  actual  power  gained  from  the  heat  developed  by 
*'e  combustion  of  a  given  quantity  of  coal,  and  hence  that  there  was 
i-*€iy  large  margin  for  improvement.  He  at  once  determined  to  try 
gmilise  some  of  this  wasted  heat,  and  he  conceived  the  idea  (to 

li  I  invite  your  particular  attention)  of  making  a  regenerator, 

Pkccumulator,  which  should  retain  or  store  a  limited  quantity  of 

1^  and  be  capable  of  yitkling  it  up  again  when  required  for  thi 


i 


2^6  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

perfjrmar.ce  of  Any  w  jrk.  In  t>.c  factory  of  Mr.  John  Hicks,  of 
l>3l:on,  he  \\t<\  co:i-:ruc:ed  an  engine  on  this  plan;  the  saving  in 
f  j-1  WAS  ^rea:.  Lu:  ::  was  attended  by  mechanical  difficulties  which 
a:  ihAi  \vrcit  '".j  «.>  -r.Able  to  solve.  The  Society  of  Arts,  however, 
recognised  th;;  .a'.u  oi  the  principle  by  awarding  him  a  gold  medal 
i:i  I  ?5o.  Three  yo.irs  afterwards,  his  paper  "  On  the  Conversion  of 
Heat  in:  J  Moclunical  Erfect,"  before  the  Institution  of  Civil 
Kngineeri.  .;A-ne.i  hi:n  the  Telford  premium  (awarded  only  once  in 
five  year^i  and  the  medal  of  the  Institution.  In  1856  he  gave  % 
lei  tare  u;  y\  h  >  c^.^'ir.o  at  the  Royal  Institution,  considered  as  the 
roult  uf  tL-n  ycAr^*  experimental  work,  and  as  the  first  practical 
ai'plxAtion  of  the  mechanicU  theory  of  heat;  he  then  indicated  the 
cronomic  considerA'.ions  which  encouraged  him  to  persevere  in  his 
e\['eriments.  ]>o:n::n.;  out  that  the  total  national  expenditure  for 
steam  L  .ul  alone  amounted  to  eight  millions  sterling  per  year,  of 
which  at  least  twu-thirJ.s  mi^ht  bo  s:ived  ! 

His  eiforts  to  improve  the  steam-engine,  however,  were  speedily 
followed  by  a  still  more  important  application  of  the  mechanical 
th-.-ory  of  heal  to  indu^triAl  i»urpose>.     In  1857  his  younger  brother, 
and  then  pupil,  Krcderick  (who,  since  the  death  of  Sir  William,  has 
undertaken  the  sole  charge  of  the  development  of  this  branch  of  his 
elder  brother's   work),  suggested   to  him   the   employment   of  re- 
generators for  the  pur[»o>e  of  saving  some  of  the  heat  %\'asted  in 
inetallurglral  operations,  autl  for  four  years  he  laboured  to  attain  this 
result,  constnicting  several  ditTerent  forms  of  furnace.     His  chief 
practical  ditVn:ullies  arose  from  the  use  of  solid  fuel — coal  or  coke- 
but  when,  in  iS5«>,  he  hit  upon  the  jiUm  of  converting  the  solid  fuel 
into  gaseous,  which  he  did  by  the  aid  of  his  gas-producer,  he  found 
that  the  results  obtained  with  his  regenerators  exceeded  his  most 
sanguine  expectations.     In   1S61  the  first  practical  regenerative  gas 
furnace  was  erected  at  the  glass  works  of  Messrs.  Chance  Bros,  in 
Manchester,  and  it  was  found  to  be  very  economical  in  its  results. 
Early  in  1862  the  attention  of  I'araday  was  drawn  to  this  matter,  and 
on  June  20  of  the  same  year,  that  prince  of  experimentalists  appeared 
before  the  Royal  Institution  audience  for  the  last  time  to  explain  the 
wonderful  simplicity,  economy,  and  power  of  the  Siemens  regenerative 
gas  furnace.     Age  and  experience  have  not   diminished  the  high 
estimation  in  which  it  is  held ;  after  nearly  twenty  years  of  con- 
tinuous working   and   extended   application,  Sir   Henry  £cs.semer 
described  it  in  1880  as  an  **  invention  which  was  at  once  the  most 
philosophic  in  principle,  the  most  powerful  in  action,  and  the  most 
economic,  of  all  the  contrivances  for  producing  heat  by  the  combus* 
tion  of  coal." 


Sir  Wiiliavi  Siemens.  287 

The  furnace  consists  essentially  of  three  parts  ;  (i)  the  gas  pro- 
■,  which  converts  ihe  solid  coal  into  gaseous  fuel ;  (j)  the 
[genetators,  usually  four  in  number,  which  are  filled  with  firebrick 
n  such  a  way  as  10  break  up  into  many  parts  a  current  of  air 
t  gas  passing  through  them  ;  (3)  the  furnace  proper,  where  the 
Bmbuslion  is  actually  accomplished.  In  using  ihe  furnace,  the 
s  fuel  and  air  are  conducted  through  one  pair  of  regenerators 
lothe  combustion  chamber  ;  the  heated  gases  from  this,  on  their  way 
Wlhe  chimney,  pass  tlirough  the  other  pair  of  regenerators,  heating 
Acm  in  their  passage.  In  the  course  of,  say,  one  hour,  the  currents 
e  reversed,  so  that  the  comparatively  cold  gas  and  air  pass  over 
ee  heated  regenerators  before  entering  the  furnace,  and  rob  them 
llheir  heat.  While  this  is  going  on,  the  first  pair  of  regenerators  is 
tiog  heated  again,  and  thus,  by  working  them  in  alternate  pairs, 
wly  all  the  heat,  which  would  otherwise  have  escaped  unused  into 
fc  chimney,  is  utilised. 

By  this  process  of  accumulation  the  highest  possible  temperature 
[Only  limited  by  the  point  at  which  its  materials  begin  to  melt)  can 
it  obtained  in  the  furnace  chamber,  without  an  intensified  draft,  and 
niih  inferior  fuel. 

It  has  been  found  that  this  furnace  is  capable  of  making  a  ton  of 
inicible  steel  with  one-sixth  of  the  fuel  required  without  it,  and  that 

e  the  temperature  of  the  furnace  chamber  exceeded  4,000° 
Kihrenheit,  the  waste  products  of  combustion  escaped  into  the 
aimney  at  240°  Fahrenheit,  or  very  little  above  the  temperature  at 
nuch  water  boils  in  the  open  air. 

.  At  the  locomotive  works  of  the  London  and  North  Western 
^tlilway  at  Crewe,  where  these  furnaces  have  long  been  used,  it  was 
iinnnly  the  practice  to  lock  a  piece  of  pitch  pine  into  the  flue  leading 
8  the  chimney,  and  if  at  the  end  of  the  week  the  wood  was  charred, 
'•as  evidence  that  more  heat  had  been  wasted  than  ought  to  have 
*en,  and  Ihe  men  in  charge  of  the  furnace  were  fined. 

This  alt-important  national  question,  the  waste  of  fuel,  which  in 
Wem  phraseology  may  be  truly  called  the  waste  of  energy,  was 
linsiantly  before  the  mind  of  Sir  \Villiam  Siemens,  who  lost  no 
Pportiinity,  in  his  public  utterances,  of  impressing  his  hearers,  and 
still  wider  circle  which  he  reached  through  the  medium  of  the 

s,  with  a  sense  of  the  weighty  consequences  which  it  involved. 

n  address  at  Liverpool  in  1872,  as  Pre.sidcnt  of  the  Institution  of 
Kchanical  Engineers,  he  estimated  the  total  coal  consumption  of 
"■is  country  at  one  hundred  and  twenty  million  tons,  which  at 

n  amounted  to  sixty  millions  sterling.     He  strongly  asserted 


ted^tf 


:''  .  '.     '.'.:. 'r^c  J  ::  J/j^-jjxirA 


..  h 


■    :-:   iiM   "T  ihe  geseral  adoption  of 

T  jrt  ^  -■  r.  -_- .-  rmzt  of  ictual  knowledge; 

-.-  ::   -y'li.lj.:  :r.5,   which  would  lad 

•   .     :   .    :. :    :'.:-.  z^t   tr.Ls  wi:h  one-eighth  or 

.....    ;   :•:".    .:;      I"    i<'^  he  delivered  a 

.     .:-•..  :.•=-:      ;  .-■.?Tv^;  11  trjiford,  on  behalf 

-     -  V     .     * ;  — j:n:*i  r.-^w  fuel  should  be 
.    ::  :  ....  "    .-    .'    '^  -.-r.-e  ^..i:  Irinches  of  con- 

-.•:•-     -..  v.-:.  .-.  :;-c  domestic  hearth; 

.-.    •      I-       -.--•::..-».:>.  :he  last  point  he 

.   ^  ■ .  ■■  .   .       :  -1:!-^.. ..."j:  f-rr.ice  only  utilised 

.   • .  —  * . -:  i : •  c . . :  cd  in  the  combustion, 

■  ■  «  .  V.  I  :-r-.i:c  :'.:  :nz'.:.r.z  steel.     In  discuss- 

.  .-T  .  ■        .  - :     .--1.1.:'    ,:  : .  il  5-: :  Iv.  he  indicated  what 

.  .  -■     .      -.-  .   -    .  :-i  :*..  .  •j'.^  i-^^esiive  and  inspiricg 

fc   -v  -^     ■■-  -r"    ■  -    ^~'  '"  -"--  'i^---^  of  the  progressive 
.    .  .-.  .    ?■..:-.:■.-=:;:.:;.  ".jyei.  aT.d  of  production 

T .  1  :-..::.;.  _•  r.::.5i::.ts  increase  at  a  rate  ot 

.     :     .-  :;"..    ■.:  !.-"._-.   .. >.-ri.i5  cjr  coal  consumption 

.  :.:.  ::  J.  ■•-,:    ;-.:..  sr.jarir.:;  ihat  the  balance  of 

?-;:.-■--.:       .■  '.-  .  .."ii  c-r  •  inieilecrral  progress.* 

■  ^  i.r  "-.   :-:   :-.-'■.  ..r  :.  .'^".r.  :"::  :r.*.j  rovement  before  us, 

'.  :>.-.:     .-■.-■.  r   :  ":  i  s.i:  ?:"ii  w.:r.  this  rate  of  intellectual 

>  .Lr.  1--. ..."  irici:  of  four  million  tons  to 


.•..«- 


".  i  TV..:  '.  ■■  :-.:;..-..■■  :   i   ;  ::■:. .::.       '.  -:  :*'..i:  we  should  bring  our 
:":/....:....  ;:  ,'.-         :     :   :   r^"-     :"  - -"  industrial  progress,  by 

•a",  i^h  ::*.i:L:.>  ■  .  ?.     .".:  :'.  .'•^-  ''•:  v  '-'-  *  T.i.:c:ion  nearly  a  constant 
.......-••  •■.  •  r.."»....  ^^    -  ...    -•.  .         ■-«.• 

0::e  :"  :!"..  .*:  :.  :  r^-..  >  ::"  :*  .:»  liCiire,  which  was  read  and 
w.ir:v.!v  c^  :::::*. L;*..:^i  Iv  j.r.:.'  ::  :'rx  :r.:s:  eminent  men  of  the  time, 
w.;  -i  :  ■-.  .^. :  1  »r  ^ : l  ir. . : .  s  v. ..  -=  .-  : :  -  j  /.  -  j  '.  y  M  r.  M  undella  i n  reference  to 
I  .ir*.i.;r/.vr.:jrv  a«  :;.r.  1  V  :!.-.  l:.\irl  f  Trade  in  re«.ird  to  the  coal 
il'dcstion. 

In  1S74  i:e  ret  civ cd  :'.-e  .Mbcrt  CioM  >rcdal  from  the  Society  of 
Arls  "  for  his  re?LarLh.s  i:\  cunnoition  wi:h  the  la^^^s  of  heat,  and  for 
services  rendered  bv  him  in  ilie  cconomisation  of  fuel  in  its  various 
applications  to  manufacii.rcs  and  the  arts,"  and  in  1S77  he  devoted 
nearly  the  whole  of  liis  address  to  ihc  Iron  and  Steel  Institute,  of 
which  he  was  then  President,  to  tlie  same  subject,  in  which,  as  regards 
the  probable  duration  of  our  coal  supply,  he  had  been  for  some  time 
cng.iged  in  a  controversy  witli  tlie  late  Professor  Jevons,  maintaining 


Sir  William  Siemens.  289 

that ''  the  ratio  of  increase  of  population  and  output  of  manufactured 
goods  would  be  nearly  balanced  for  many  years  to  come  by  the 
further  introduction  of  economical  processes,  and  that  our  annual 
production  would  remain  substantially  the  same  within  that  period, 
which  would  probably  be  a  period  of  comparatively  cheap  coaL" 

One  of  the  most  important  applications  of  the  regenerative 
furnace  has  been  to  the  manufacture  of  steel,  and  he  soon  perceived 
that  it  was  necessary  for  himself  to  solve  the  various  difficulties  which 
others  regarded  as  practically  insuperable.  "  Having,"  he  says, 
"  been  so  often  disappointed  by  the  indifference  of  manufacturers 
and  the  antagonism  of  their  workmen,  I  determined  in  1865  to  erect 
experimental  or  *  sample  steel  works  '  of  my  own  at  Birmingham,  for 
the  purpose  of  maturing  the  details  of  these  processes,  before  invit- 
ing manufacturers  to  adopt  them."  The  success  of  experiments  in 
1867-68,  in  making  steel  rails,  brought  about  the  formation  of  the 
Landore  Siemens  Steel  Co.,  whose  works  were  opened  in  1874. 
When  Dr.  Siemens  was  knighted,  the  employes  of  this  company 
embodied  their  congratulations  in  an  address,  and  had  prepared  for 
him  a  very  beautiful  model  of  a  steel  furnace  in  ivory  and  silver ;  the 
presentation  of  these  was  prevented  by  his  premature  death,  but  the 
address  stated  that  *'  the  quantity  of  steel  made  here  to  the  end  of 
last  year  on  your  process  was  upwards  of  400,000  tons  !  "  In  the 
ten  years  ending  in  1882,  the  annual  production  of  open- hearth  steel 
in  the  United  Kingdom  increased  from  77,500  tons  to  436,000  tons. 
During  an  action  in  the  Superior  Courts  of  the  United  States,  it  was 
stated  that  the  inventor  had  received  a  million  dollars  in  royalties, 
the  annual  saving  in  that  country  by  his  process  ^eing  3  J  millions 
of  dollars  I  These  statements  refer  mainly,  I  believe,  to  the  conver- 
sion of  cast  or  wrought  iron  into  steel,  either  by  the  "  direct "  pro- 
cess of  acting  on  pig-iron  with  iron  ore  in  an  open  hearth,  or  by 
the  "  scrap-process  "  (Siemens-Martin)  of  melting  wrought-iron  and 
steel  scrap  in  a  bath  of  pig-metaL  Both  of  these  require  the  pre- 
liminary treatment  of  the  blast  furnace,  and  in  speaking  of  them  in 
1873,  Dr.  Siemens  said  that  "  however  satisfactory  these  results 
might  appear,  I  have  never  considered  them  in  the  light  of  final 
achievements.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  always  looked  upon  the 
direct  conversion  of  iron  and  steel  from  the  ore,  without  the  inter- 
vention of  blast  furnaces  and  the  refinery,  as  the  great  object  to  be 
attained."  How  far  he  succeeded  in  this  may  be  gathered  from  the 
fact  that  in  a  paper  read  on  April  29,  1883,  before  the  Iron  and 
Steel  Institute,  on  the  ''  Manufacture  of  Iron  and  Steel  by  the  Direct 
Process,"  he  showed  how  to    produce  15  cwt  of  wrought  iron 

VOL.  CCLVIIL      NO.  185I.  Y. 


direct  from  the  ore  in  three  hours,  with  a  consumption  of  15 
of  coal  per  ton  of  metal,  which  is  one-half  the  quantity  previousl]|| 
required  for  the  production  of  a  ton  of  pig-iron  only,  in  the  blas^ 
furnace !  The  long  and  costly  experiments  which  ended  in  th", 
realisation  of  his  views  extended  over  twenty-five  years;  and  it  E 
worthy  of  note  that  he  told  the  Parliamentary  Committee  on  Paten'  . 
that  he  would  not  have  continued  tliem  if  the  English  patent  la« 
had  not  insured  such  a  period  of  protection  as  would  repay  him  C^ 
his  labour. 

Great,  however,  as  the  economic  results  of  the  gas-producer  ia^rve 
been,  its  inventor  looked  forward  to  still  more  remarkable  application 
of  it.  In  iSSi  he  lold  the  British  Association,  in  his  presidential 
address,  that  he  thought  "  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when  both  rich 
and  poor  will  largely  resort  to  gas  as  the  most  convenient,  the 
cleanest,  and  the  cheapest  of  heating  agents,  and  when  raw  coal  will 
be  seen  only  at  the  colliery  or  the  gas-works.  In  all  cases  where  the 
town  to  be  supplied  is  within,  say,  thirty  miles  of  the  colliery,  the  gas- 
works may  with  advantage  be  planted  at  the  mouth,  or,  still  better, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  pit,  whereby  all  haulage  of  fuel  would  be 
avoided,  and  the  gas,  in  its  ascent  from  the  bottom  of  the  colliery. 
would  acquire  an  onward  pressure  sufficient  probably  to  impel  it  to 
its  destination.  The  possibiHty  of  transporting  combustible  g** 
through  pipes  for  such  a  distance  has  been  proved  at  Pittsbui:^ 
where  natural  gas  from  the  oil  district  is  used  in  lai^e  quantities-" 
It  may  be  well  to  point  out  here  that  as  a  step  towards  this,  it  was  a 
favourite  project  of  his — practically  carried  out  in  some  places — to 
divide  the  gaseous  products  of  the  ordinary  distillation  of  coal  intc 
two,  the  middle  portions  being  illuminating  gas  of  18  to  20  candl* 
power  instead  of  16,  and  the  first  and  last  portions,  which  under  thi* 
system  may  be  largely  increased,  being  healing  gas  ;  such  gas  1>* 
expected  to  see  sold  at  is.  per  r, 000  cubic  feet.  The  obvious  aii^ 
only  practical  objection  to  tlie  plan  is  the  necessity  for  doubling  *-** 
the  mains  and  service- pipes.  That  we  shall  eventually  burn  gaseo** 
fuel  on  the  domestic  hearth,  as  we  have  lately  learnt  lo  do  on  A* 
metallurgical,  I  have  not  the  smallest  doubt ;  it  is  a  ftiere  queslio*" 
of  the  time  necessary  for  the  education  of  the  public  mind  upo" 
the  question  ;  the  apter  the  pupil,  the  more  speedy  will  be  iti^ 
desired  result.  Let  it  be  thoroughly  understood  by  every  one  th** 
the  soot  which  hangs  in  a  pall  over  London  in  a  single  day  " 
cquivaUni  to  at  least  fifty  tons  of  coal,  and  then  there  will  be  no  0^' 
culty  in  seeing  that  the  true  .-ind  the  only  remedy  for  our  Londo" 
fogs,  with  all  their  attendant  ills,  is — gaseous  fuel.     May  we  1"' 


Sir  William  Siemens.  291 

that,  though  Sir  William  Siemens  Jias  gone  from  among  us,  the 
great  movement  for  smoke  abatement,  in  which  he  so  earnestly 
Libuured  during  the  last  three  years  of  his  life,  may  have  full  effect? 

If  I  have  dwelt  thus  long  upon -this  particular  br;uich  of  my 
subject,  it  is  because  I  know  of  no  other  which  so  well  illustrates 
two  points  in  Sir  \Villiam  Siemens'  character  which  I  alluded  to  at 
the  outset :  his  imwavering  devotion  to  general  principles  and  their 
tunsequences,  and  his  ardent  desire  to  promote  the  practical  welfare 
uf  mankind.  There  is,  however,  as  the  laie  Professor  RoUeston 
remarked  to  him,  no  subject  which  more  impresses  the  njjnds  even 
of  persons  who  are  laymen  as  regards  science,  than  the  history  of 
T'elegraphy  (and  I  may  perhaps  be  permitted  to  add,  of  Electrical 
Engineering  generally),  now  so  inseparably  connected  with  his  name. 
The  University  of  Gottingen,  at  which  he  studied,  was  the  cradle,  if 
not  the  birthplace,  of  the  electric  telegraph  in  1833.  Shortly  after. 
Sir  Charles  Wheatstone  in  England,  and  Mr.  Morse  in  the  United 
Stales,  were  simultaneously  working  at  the  same  problem,  and  each 
claimed  the  honour  of  having  solved  it. 

The  telegraph,  however,  was  still  in  a  very  undeveloped  state 
"'hen  the  Brothers  Siemens  began   to  study  it,  and  their  series  of 
inventions,  especially  for  long-distance  telegraphy,  largely  aided  in 
'**'taging  it  to  its  present  condition.    One  of  their  first  was  the  Relay, 
*^^   electro- magnet  so  delicate  that  it  will  move  with  the  weakest 
ciirtent.     By  the  use  of  five  of  Siemens'  polarised  relays,  a  mes- 
*»€e  can  be  sent  by  the  Indo-Kuropean  Telegraph  from  London  to 
Tehct-in.  a  distance  of  3,Soo  miles,  without  any  retransmission   by 
^*and,  and  during  the  Shah  of  Persia's  visit  in    1873,  Dr.   Siemens 
arranged    for   messages   to    be    thus  regularly   despatched    from   a 
f'Ociin  in  Buckingham  Palace.     In   1858,  Messrs.    Siemens    Brothers 
'established  near  I^ndon  the  well-known  telegraph  works,  and  the 
'^^•nstruction    by  thcni   in    1868  and  following  years  of  the    Indo- 
European  Telegraph— the  overland   double  line  to   India  through 
'"nissia,  Southern  Russia,  and  Persia — was  tlic  first  great  undertaking 
'->f  the  kind.     Writing  of  it  in  August  1882,  during  the  first  Egyptian 
'-^npaign,  Dr.  Siemens  said,  ''At  the  present  time  our  communication 
^nth  India,  Australia,  and  the  Cape  depends,  notwithstanding  the 
"ominal  existence  of  a  line  through  Turkey,  on  the  Indo-European 
''Icgraph." 

The  Messrs.  Siemens  were  also  pioneers  in  submarine  tele- 
Sfaijliy,  Uic  first  cable  covered  wiih  gutta-percha  having  been  laid 
■'"^fOss  ihe  Rhine  by  Dr.  Werner  Siemens  in  1847.  The  invention  of 
^"■^  machine  for  coating  the  conducting  wire   with  the  insulating 


r 


1 


material,  gutla-percha  or  iiidiarubber,  is  entirely  due  to  Dr.  Willian*-^ 
Siemens,  who  also  subsequently  designed  the  steamship  Farti^ay  fac*"! 
the  special  work  of  laying  and  repairing  submarine  cables.  This  unit[i 
vessel  was  launched  or  Feb.  i6,  1874,  and  when  she  was  complel( 
Dr.  Siemens   invited  ail    his   scientific   friends  to  inspect  her, 
challenged  them  to  suggest  any  improvemenls  in  her  arrangeraeD' 
She  was  first  used  in  laying  the  Direct  United  Slates  Cable,  whi,^x, 
is  above  3,000  miles  in  length.     In  this  connection  I  may  perh^ssa 
be  permitted  to  relate  a   verj'  characteristic  anecdote.     ^V'hen  ^^() 
Siemens  took  a  contract  for  a  cable,  the  electric:il  tests  of  which  w~— ^^ 
specified,  it  was  his  invariable  habit  10  give  out  to  the  works  a  c^o. 
siderably  higher  lest,  which  every  section  of  the  cable  had  to  ffc-^Ks, 
or  be  rejected  in  ioto.     In  the  case  of  this  cable,  probably  du  ria^ 
manipulation  on  board  ship,  a  minute  piece  of  wire  penetrated     lie 
insulating  material,  bringing  down  the  electrical  test  to  a  point  be-low 
the  "  works  "  test,  but  still  decidedly  above  the  contract  test  The  dis- 
covery was  not  made  until  so  late  that  to  cut  out  the  faulty  piece  in- 
volved a  delay  of  sonie  days  in  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic,  but    D'' 
Siemens  insisted  upon  its  being  done ;  after  this,  stormy  weather  c3tn« 
on,  and  the  cable  had  to  be  cut  and  buoyed,  while  the  ^rarfrtv  had  tc 
winter  on  the  American  side,  and  resume  operations  next  spring.    Tl** 
money  loss  involved  amoiinted.  I  am  told,  to  more  than  ^3o,oc>*'* 
Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  of  the  later  feats  was  the  fulfilment   «f 
a  contract  with  the  Compagnie  ftan^aise  du  Telegraphe  de  Pa^' 
ii  New  York,  who    ordered    a   cable    3,000    miles    long   from     ^^^ 
Messrs.   Siemens    in    March    1879,    and    it    was    handed    over     *" 
them  in  perfect  working  order    in  September  of   [he   same  yei»^- 
There  are  now  nearly  go,ooo  miles  of  submarine  cable  at  work,  cast- 
ing about  ^^32,000,000,  and  a  fleet  of  thirty-two  ships  are  employed  i" 
laying,  watching,  and  repairing  these  cables,  of  which  there  are  nof 
eleven  across  the  Atlantic  alone. 

In  connection  with  the  subject  of  telegraphy,  and  as  an  instance 
of  the  versatility  of  Dr.  Siemens's  inventive  powers,  I  may  point  t**" 
that  in  1876  he  brought  out  the  pneumatic  postal  telegraph  tube,  l^J' 
which,  as  is  pretty  generally  known,  written  messages  arc  blcwn  **' 
sucked  through  tubes  on  various  metropolitan  routes,  instead  ^ 
being  transmitted  electrically.  About  the  same  time,  also,  he  co"' 
slructed  his  ingenious  bathometer,  for  ascertaining  the  depth  of  tl" 
sea  at  any  given  point,  without  the  tedious  operation  of  sounding'  hi 
and  some  years  previously  he  worked  out  his  electrical  ihermooift''  | 

or  pyrometer,  enabling  the  observer  to  read  the  temperature  l*''^''-      1^ 
ever  he  desired)  at  any  distant  and  inaccessible  point,  such  as  1^     l^( 


Sir   IViliiain  Siemens.  ^9^1 

op  of  a  mouniain,  the  bol.om  of  the  sta,  the  air  between  the  layers* 
if  a  cable,  or  the  interior  of  a  furnace. 

Probably  the  most  prominent  itlea  associated  in  the  public  mind 
prith  the  name  of  Siemens  is  that  of  electric  lighting,  and  perhaps 
dectric  tram  and  railroads.  As  I  have  more  than  once  pointed  out 
is  room,  the  dynamo-machine,  by  which  mechanical  energy  is 
convened  into  that  form  of  encrjy  known  as  electricity  (which  may 
pe  uied  both  for  lighting  and  for  the  transmission  of  power),  is 
derived  from  a  principle  discovered  by  P'araday  in  1831.  Sir  William 
Semens"  devotion  to  this,  and  the  important  practical  consequences 
which  he  deduced  from  it,  constitute  another  example  of  that  mental 
characteristic  to  which  I  have  already  alluded.  Faraday's  discovery, 
briefly  described,  was  that  when  a  bar  magnet  was  suddenly  inserted 
0  a  coil  oi  wire,  or  when  a  wire  was  suddenly  moved  through  a 
*nagnetic  field,  a  momentary  current  of  electricity  was  developed  in 
ibewire.  Although  this  current  is  exceedingly  small  and  brief,  it  is 
S|abie  of  unlimited  multiplication  by  mechanical  arrangements  of  a 
biiple  kind.  One  means  for  accomplishing  (his  multiplication  was 
»e  Siemens  armature  of  1857,  which  consisted,  at  first,  of  a  piece  of 
fC»n  with  wire  wound  round  it  longitudinally,  not  transversely,  the 
(tiole  to  be  rotated  between  the  poles  of  a  powerful  magnet ;  in  its 
*■«£[»  form  it  is  one  of  the  most  powerfid  and  perfect  things  of  its 
^MnJ,  and  the  evolution  of  the  Siemens  armature,  as  we  now  have  itj 
Iroin  the  rudimentary  type  of  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  has  been 
*=haricterised  by  Sir  W.  Thomson  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pro- 
■^ucisof  inventive  genius,  and  more  like  the  growth  of  a  flower  than 
J  almost  anything  else  in  the  way  of  mechanism  made  by  man. 

Ten  years  afterwards  came  his  classical  paper  '■  On  the  Conversion 
f  Dynamical  into  Eiectricat  Force,  without  the  use  of  permanent 
■'^spietism,"  which  was  reaii  before  the  Royal  Society  on  February  14, 
.  Strangely  enougli,  the  discovery  of  the  same  principle  was 
Wuuciated  at  the  same  meeting  by  Sir  Charles  Wheatstone,  while  there 
"yet  a  third  claimani  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Cromwell  Varley,  who  had 
P*viously  applied  for  a  patent  in  which  the  idea  was  embodied.  It 
'***  never  be  quite  certain,  therefore,  who  was  the  first  discoverer  of 
J**  principle  upon  which  modem  dynamo -machines  are  constructed. 
'*  leed  not  describe  here  the  way  in  which  this  principle  is  carried 
*"  in  all  dynamo- machines.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  they  differ  from 
**raday's  magneto -electric  machines  in  having  electro -magnets  in 
"•^  place  of  permanent  steel  magnets,  and  that  these  electro- 
'^'''gnets  are,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  self-excited  by  the 
V^y  of  mutual  give  and  lake  between  the  armature  and  the  magnet,    . 


:?0.J  The  GcntUmans  ^fjir.^zz. 


li  w;i.  ill'.-  iriVcnV'»:i  '•:'  ihr  •-■.T.i-r-.-r:i:lMr;  ^'-lslt.  nidi  ti-- 

int  uts  Ikivc  :l;n\\n  lliat  i:  i=  <^:.\:y.\t  c:  trz*  *f:r^.r^  n:-  -"^--^a; 
v.<jik  90  i>iT  f.riit.  <.f  ihc  n^-.^h.'-.-ca:  tr.er.T  er-.-Lr-rs-i  i*  -rrve 
jMiwiT.    lis  |ir;u.lif.:il  ajijli*  a::  .-r^  :-  -v!;  ;.•:  ::s  i-Jlrrr.     I-   :--c  V.'i:: 

<  «iiii|.lLir.H  lii-i  *•  imjirovciiK-nt-i  "  ;n  the  «:eis:-c"^-e.  zszi  '1-t  Cfirrr 
uliiMi  his  ^iiK 'J  L-la:.-L-«i  l.ns  :".-..:  s-jrncri  :d  iecr  7:15^72:=  :■■*  -^^ 
cMriU  f.r  il^  iiii!:iy.  \N)):i:  n'.r.y  we  r.:-:  exT-ic:  :-  :;-;  zt'i'izziztc 
yt.ars    froru    r.<.-   L\'eri-!»n    of    :r.e   tf'.T.ir.- :.-~2:-:r.t    :-    'iricil 

pMlpO   IS? 

In  !:i'.-  <L'vt.:Ir)j):iie:.t  of  .i;i;/*:in:e5  :"::  ir,t  :r:i.::::-  ;:"  ±e 
rl'.'tii'  li::ht  Sir  W'illi.-iin  Sicmen^  took  -  '.tz'--  - -—  ■:-*  -5  ^^ 
wrW  l;n'i\v:i,  !::■  r.rm  lias  liLcn  A.v/.i* /f:r.y-.-  ;:  j^i:  :2t  iz:rcr.2Sl 
d- '  tri'  iK\!i:li!:iitijs.  liul  while  ever  ze^j^^u-  r-^  '-■ —  --  ■>;-.-> 
f;!t--.  Ii'j  n-VLT  t'/  .k  .1  partisan  \ic-.v  of  its  '.iti'irr.  c"-  -■  '  v  t-*-^-^-!? 
iha:  .  -  ir.u*:  •  'intirv.iL- 1-)  l^e  the  j'Oor  nun's  frfer.i.  Ir.  ::fr  hr  toid 
the  S«.r  ieiy  i.f  Ai-.s  ih  i:  "  Kl-jctririty  nvj>t  win  :-.e  c^v  j.- .- ■/  .".vT.-y 
/:/\//n\  !■■::  ^.i>  V. ill  f.i..]  an  ever- increasing  u7.j:-l;.:a:::.r.  :':r  vie  core 
)i'.;in;.!  ■  ;  i:"!,"  ■.-  if  ■!!:"!  ;i  sin/  hijht." 

In  i!.v  !:  iP. !-  'f  I  »r.  Siein-.r-s  the  tn-iinno-s  er.erjv  c:5T!jved  in 
the  I/..' tr.'  A:-  v. a -«  .:;;ilie'l  t«j  oth-.r  purposes  ihar.  n:crc  I:jh±iz. 
In  [i;'.L-  I  ■^-  he  uTeally  asiun:>hed  the  >rc:e:v  of  Teleaiph 
l!njii:eL:>  iiy  <.\:.:"!:;:vJ  the  power  (i  an  electncai  :\iznicc  cesisr-ed 
by  !;:i:i  :m  i:i<.!:  c«»:>!<ljr.iMe 'ju-inlitiLS  of  such  exceeding:! v  refrjcton- 
metals  a<  j.!ati:v::\  !ri  liLini,  cvc.  He  explaine.i  ih.i:  he  was  led  :o 
i.n'lertake  L\;  vriiii-.  i'^  wiiii  t'.ii-  or.d  in  \:l-.v  by  the  consicerarion 
t!i.:t  .1  L''>'^.i  >:ua'.i":M.::,i:"ie  <.  or.  vers  i;  per  ccnL  of  the  c ne rc\' of  coal 
into  niLC  ::.^.n:cai  etVe-  t.  \v:.:Ie  .:  .::ood  dynamo -machine   is  citable  of 

<  on  vert  :n  J  S.J  1  -r  ce:::.  «.>f  ti; :  mechanical  into  electrica.!  eni:r^\'.  If 
t h « ■  1  at •  er  •  o 'a ! ■  I  1  f  j  e \ ; >er. . i -. ■•  1  w : : >.  du t  loss  in  an  e! ectric  furnace,  it 
\\}[\l\  f\<)  i'.ii--  far  cxt  j-j  I  in  e     -lomyary  known  air  LimaCi.-. 

MorL'jvLT  >;r  Wili!.::.;  Si-.nvjr.s  may  fairly  be  described  as  the 
creator  of  i.-l-.-rtr-.i-iii-riii  ;::.:r-.'.  Some  expL-rimenis  which  he  nude 
carlv  in  188'.  le-i  i.iiit  *.'.»  :l:e  '  :»:!•:! us: or*  that  the  electric  li^hl  could 
influeh' e  llr:  ;.rod!:'' t'^.'n  of  colouring:  matter  in  leaves,  and  promote 
th«:  rijjenin;:  of  fr.: it  at  all  -er.v.ns  of  the  y^^ar.  and  at  ail  hours  of  the 
day  and  ni^Ist.  In  the  followii^^'  winter  he  put  these  conclusions  to 
I  he  test  of  exi;erienf  c  on  a  lar^e  ^^ale  at  hi-  countr}-  house.  Sherwood, 
near  'i'lml/rid.L'e  \\'t:\\<,  cn-l  the  ilsuIis  obtained  were  communicated 
to  the  Jiriti.-»h  Assorlaiion  at  York  in  iSSr.  in  a  paper,  the  value  of 
which  was  rcro„mised  by  its  receiving'  the  rare  distinction  of  being 
j)riny^"^WI  in  the  annual  report. 


Sir  William  Siemens.  295 

Some  photographs,  which  he  kindly  allowed  me  to  take,  represent 
the  difference  between  three  kinds  of  com  grown  under  ordinary 
conditions,  and  the  same  com,  under  the  same  conditions,  with  the 
added  stimulus  of  the  electric  light  from  sunset  to  sunrise.  He  came 
to  the  conclusion  that,  although  periodic  darkness  evidently  favours 
growth  in  the  sense  of  elongating  the  stalks  of  plants,  the  coniinuotis 
stimulus  of  light  was  favourable  to  a  healthy  development  at  a 
greatly  accelerated  pace,  through  all  the  stages  of  the  annual  life  of 
the  plant,  from  the  early  leaf  to  the  ripened  fmit 

I  have  left  until  the  last  any  notice  of  a  field  of  work  which  the 
Messrs.  Siemens  may  be  truly  said  to  have  made  peculiarly  their 
own,  viz.,  the  electrical  transmission  and  distribution  of  power;  for  I 
firmly  believe  that  in  the  future,  although  not  perhaps  in  the  near 
future,  the  practical  consequences  of  this  will  be  such  as  are  little 
dreamed  of  now  ;  and  this  opinion  is",  I  know,  held  by  men  far  more 
competent  to  judge  than  I  am. 

In  March  1877  Dr.  Siemens  startled  the  world,  in  his  address  to 
the  Iron  and  Steel  Institute,  by  his  proposal  to  transmit  to  distant 
points  some  of  the  energy  of  the  Falls  of  Niagara.  As  I  have  before 
explained  in  this  room,  the  electrical  transmission  of  energy  depends 
upon  the  fact  that  a  dynamo-machine  may  be  used  either  to  convert 
mechanical  into  electrical  energy,  or  to  effect  the  reverse  change. 
Hence  to  transmit  power  in  this  way,  two  dynamo-machines,  con- 
nected by  a  metallic  conducting  rod,  or  cable,  are  necessary ;  the 
first,  at  the  water-fall  or  other  source  of  power,  produces  the  electrical 
energy,  which,  in  its  turn,  is  reconverted  into  mechanical  power  by  the 
second  dynamo  at  the  other  end  of  the  line.  In  his  own  grounds  at 
Tunbridge  Wells  he  made  numerous  experiments  in  this  subject, 
distributing  the  power  from  a  central  steam-engine  over  various  parts 
of  his  farm,  there  to  perform  different  functions.  The  most  interest- 
ing practical  examples,  as  yet,  are  to  be  seen  in  the  electric  railroads 
erected  and  worked  by  Siemens  Brothers  in  Paris,  Berlin,  Vienna,  &c., 
and  in  the  Electric  Tramroad  at  Portrush.  The  special  interest  of 
this  line  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  was  the  first  real  application  to  rail- 
roads of  "  waste  energy,"  inasmuch  as  the  cars  are  propelled  by  the 
power  of  a  waterfall  eight  miles  off !  The  last  occasion  on  which  I 
had  the  privilege  of  meeting  Sir  William  Siemens  was  when,  honoured 
by  his  invitation,  I  was  present  at  the  opening  of  this  line  in 
September  28,  1883.  On  that  occasion,  which,  half-a-century 
hence,  will  be  as  memorable  as  the  opening  of  the  Stockton  and 
Darlington  railroad,  the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland  recognised  the 
&ct  that  this  was  an  entirely  new  departure  in  the  development  oC 


2Cj6  Tlie  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

the  resources  of  Ireland,  and  ^^i^  William  Siemens^  in  a  most 
i'lKir.icterl>tic  speech,  admitted  that,  had  he  known  the  difficulties 
before  Irini.  he  shniilJ  have  thought  twice  before  he  said  "  Yes**  to 
Pr.  Tr.iiirs  ijiu-irio:!  as  to  whether  the  proposed  line  could  bewcM^ed 
elev'tr'.i-.r.iy.  l>;::  ilu:.  havin;^  said  "  Yes,*'  he  was  determined  to  cany 
o::  :'•«.*  |^r<>>c:.  As  i'lustraiing  the  character  of  the  man,  I  may 
*■*  e  ".ix,:  :>.e  s.i>ir.^  common  in  his  workshops,  that  as  soon  as  any 
••  v\.<:.\xz  vr.^>'c:i  hid  l^een  given  up  by  everybody  as  a  bad  job,  it 
u;  o''.\  t.''  >-•  ukv':i  to  Pr.  Siemens  for  him  to  suggest  half-a-dozen 
\i  -..N  .'!  N.-.v."^  ::.  :wo  of  which  would  be  complicated  and  im- 
■•.•..■.'.  \-.  : A. ^  .:.*-s:'-'.:.  Jir.d  two  jerfectlv  satisfactory. 

}  •  N  c'\-  •  '-.i.-MTv  :::er.ul  aciivitv  is  shown  in  the  fact  that  between 
•  < ,;  ... ;  •<<;••,;.><  :h.'.r.  133  'jUients  were  granted  in  Elngbnd  to 
«'. --v  S  .v.r-:    iS^i' ir...:  1S5!  being  the  only  years  in  which 
•x'  ".'.  :.-.v. '.  V,-.:      I^^rr^  the  same  period  he  contributed  as 
•X   .x  ■  :<  •.;.•-.—   >:!i-:.."c  subjects  to  various  journals,  only 
.  .  ^  .    ,,   ...    ^    .,,^.  ■%«  *:<:"*:  without  such  evidences  of  work, 
■    •^<-       .    ■■vxT     :"  :"-.ese  :Mi*ers  reached  seventeen,  the 
^.-  .\    -^  :  Si".  ;■*  ■  .*.:i-:5 --.r.i  original  scientific  papers  per 

■     .■        ••■:."■.■.  :f  -  cer.run*,  a  irjlv  wonderful  record 
-.  -  . .-  -■-.■•  :"i'  .r.v. -essicr.  his  work  made  upon 

.    :"*.    ■,'".*"»  "^   •Ms^oire   from   the   many  which 
.     .\     •  .   .    •,    -  \    s:-^  ..:    ^i  :  -.e  vrfh.s  deaih.     It  is  headed  : 


1  \ 


'^  »  ■• 


> 


■.>.  ■.-.   S.:-r;"f  Tne:h>i  has  been 

-    ....      .::•_-.:::— i  v:ir:h  coir. panble 

c.  v:7  »i.  !e.     L}t>::rical  rcust- 

•   "^  i~eT.s  ■  :*  mriteti  on  water 

...     .■".-.--    ir;   i>>  >:* i   Vy   Sicxneas 

T'."^.-;-';.  -  -rtrw  f ,  r  silvering  and 

^    ■  .:  *.   -  ,;.^   .'.  :"'*    ievelopmcni  of 

•.-.•.:_  -?-^ .  1: .  >  j:r.:r  -  :he  action  of 

.     ^    -•       T..-   i:.   *'..,:«.:>.  zni  -.hit  of  the 

?.   V  .  ^  ...-.::..  r:   1:    ":  ri«r.wich.     The 

^.      .-.-s    *  ".  ■    -i-jT;  r-jri:.-.  f  :::r2aces,  aie 

.    «   .  i^--   V  ^t>^     r  a.sse=-b:T-T> 


X  s  V  .  ^  .     ^-    .-  r  .v;  .^  te  .r   :.  mill*  -J-,;  Sicme&s 

,   .      *      .  .         .     ,•      ..  .     '..r^   ».::«:   s^hii;.     T!ic 

«»..-.  .     .^   -■      :.:>sA     T^e  >ieines5 

»,«.•...  :v-r  "   :.-..r-:e&.  was  the 

^^  •     .  '  X  V  K  ♦  ■  N  *      >*    *  '      *     *  ^"^^  -''*-  *-  *•=  CKjwsJiion 

V^  na^  >•'*%->;>  '   .v^\  ^  .^   -  ,..>cor.  :>x  ^ecsng.  orat 


Sir  Wtlltam  Siemens. 

least  not  immediately  affecting,  human  welfare.     A  greai  authority 

his  characterised  this  as  "one  of  the  highest  and  most  brilliant 

flighis  that   the   scientific    imagination   has  ever   made."     While 

nomers  ijuietly  accepted  the  conclusion  that  the  sim  is  cooling 

duwn,  and  will  become  at  some  distant  but  calculable  epoch  a  mere 

ciader  hung  in  space,  he  endeavoured  to  show  that  energy  can  no 

c  be  lost  in  the  solar  system  than  it   is  in  the  laboratory  or 

L  ihe&clory.     Sir  WJUiam  Sieraens's  theory  assumed  that  the  inter- 

1  planetary  spaces  are  filled  with  an  exceedingly  thin  or  rare  atmosphere 

I  of  ihe  compounds  of  carbon,  hydrogen,  and  oxygen,  such  for  example 

IS  aqueous  vapour  and  hydro-carbons.     In  this  atmosphere  the  sun 

I  istcvolving  with  a  velocity  four  times  that  of  the  earth,  and  hence 

I  Ihesolar  atmosphere  at  his  equator  is  thrown  out  to  an  enormous 

I  distance  from  his  surface.     One  consequence  of  this  is  a  perpetual 

I  indraught,  at  the  poles  of  the  sun,  of  the  surrounding  atmosphere. 

I  Tiius  the  sun  is  everlastingly  being  fed,  and  everlastingly  sending 

Is  light  and  heat,  which  thus  recuperate  themselves  ;  in  this  way 

llie  solar  energy,  which  is   sometimes   assumed  to  be  lost  in  the 

tniptjr  void  of  interstellar  space,  really  acts  upon  the  rare  vapours 

I   therein,  and  converts  the  universe  into  a  kind  of  vast  regenerative 

I  'umace !     Had  the  author  of  this  ingenious  theory  lived  but  a  few 

)*ars  longer,  he  would  doubtless  have  laboured  to  strengthen  it  with 

[  funher  observations  and  arguments,      As  it  is,  it  must  remain  as 

*  daring  and  original  suggestion,  the  effort  of  a  keen  and  sagacious 

■"iod  to  bring  to  fresh  subjects  the  experience  and  the  knowledge 

'   ^cumulated  by  work  of  quite  a  different  kind.     It  is  more  scientific 

to  believe,  with  him,  that  there  is  some  restorative  and  conservative 

*?6ncy  at  work,    than  to  suppose  that   the   universe    is   gradually 

™oling  down  into  a  ball  of  slag,  were  it  only  because  his  theory 

'^es  not  require  an  effort  of  creation  at  once  tremendous  and  futile. 

'  leaves  us  free  to  avoid  contemplating  a  time  when  the  solar 

'st^u,  vvas  not,  and  another  when  it  will  cease  to  be. 

let  us  now  take  a  brief  glance  at  one  or  two  of  Sir  William 
'  '^rnens's  public  addresses  on  more  general  subjects.  His  interes 
'"  education  was  so  keen,  and  especially  in  that  branch  of  education 
,**C>wn  as  technical  or  technological,  that  these  addresses  almost 
Variably  had  this  for  their  subject,  and  were  frequently  given  at 
*^**je  public  ceremony  in  connection  with  it,  such  for  example  as 
J^tributions  of  prizes.  The  most  important  of  them,  perhaps,  was 
^*Ven  on  October  20,  1881,  at  the  re-opening  of  the  Midland 
'^siitute  in  Birmingham.  He  there  surprised  his  audience  by 
^^preciating  the  German  polytechnic  system  of  colleges,  on  the 


i 


.=-  .= ASinSICT 


~  -  -     zio: 


:=  :r 


■^      -  """^  .    ^   "^  .^   ^^'       r  ^Hs"' 


j,^^n--^  :i:=£ 


-     1 


L—      l:_r     -Zjt    J 


';.;».•.• 


1^'  ^  t 


V;    "^-;   In: 


rr  T*:»cvenLr.cc  in 
d  ::  has  been  veil 
:  almost  peipetnal 


t-- 


Sir  Wiiliam  Siemens. 

.oidse,  iliese  difficulties  supplied  only  a  wholesome  quantity  of 

:rsisLince.     In  ihe  two  valuable  qualities  of  tenacity  and  pliancy  of 

tellect  he   has   perhaps   never   been  surpassed.     Suppleness  and 

vtnblencss  of  mind  are  rarely  allied  with  that  persistent    "grip," 

■hich,  without  them,   is  not  unlikely  to  degenerate  into  obstinacy. 

In  Sr  William  Siemens  these  qualities  were  happily  balanced.     His 

talents  were  the  admiration  of  his  contemporaries,  and  his  memory 

wia  ever  be  respecled  and  honoured  by  all,  friends  and  rivals  alike  ; 

£w  the  facility  with  which  he  applied  his  powers  to  the  solution  of 

ihc  most  difficult  problems  was  equalled  by  the  modesty  with  which 

he  presented  the  successful  result  of  his   efforts.      An  eminent 

tngineer  said  of  him,  "  With  all  his  great  work,  no  envious  word  was 

twnniied  !  "     At  the  time  when  he  received  his  honorary  degree 

Bm  the  University  of  Oxford,  a  distinguisJied  Oxonian  wTOte  :  "  I 

ve  an  alumnus  more  distinguished  by  great  ability,  and  by  a 

and  honourable  determination  to  use  it  for  the  good  of  his 

len,  and  to  help  forward  man's  law  of  existence,  '  Subdue  the 

and  have  dominion  over  it,'  never  received  a  degree  from  the 

fiiversity  of  Oxford,"    Of  the  other  distinctions  heaped  upon  him, 

»aj  often  said  that  the  Society  rather  than    Dr.   Siemens   was 

toured ;  and  when  he  was  knighted,  a  well-known  man  of  science, 

ilii^  to  congratulate  him,  said  :  "  At  the  same  time  I  feel  that  the 

•dobling  of  three  such  men  as  yourself,  Abel,  and  Playfair  confers 

m  honour  on  the  order  of  knighthood  than  even  it  does  on 

oice." 

The  fame  of  Sir  William  Siemens  was  world-wide,  as  it  deserved 

be  J  but  those  who  knew  him  best  wilt  be  the  most  ready  to 

3iowledge  that  the  qualities  of  his  heart  were  no  less  conspicuous 

o  those  of  his  intelleci,     Hear  what  his  pupils  and  assistants  said 

Bin  : — "  How  my  dear  old  master  will  be  missed,  and  what  a  gap 

*any  walks  of  life  will  be  unfilled  !  "     "  There  are  many  younger 

^bera  of  our  i>rofcssion  who  will  look  elsewiicre  in  vain  for  sucb 

^ial  uniform  kindness  and  sympathy  as  his  invariably  was."     "The 

^^v\  years  I  spent  in  his  service  were  the  happiest  in  my  life."     "It 

"^  the  loss  of  the  kindest  and  best  friend  I  ever  had,  and  I  have 

""^    known  such  sonow  since  the  loss  of  my  older  brother.    The 

f*i»est  incentive  I  had  in  my  new  work  was  the  desire  of  showing 

"'*>  that  his  kindly  recommendation  was  justified  by  the  event."     In 

'**tiowlcdging   the   gift   from   Lady    Siemens    of   some   objects   of 

^embrance,  one  writes  :  "  They,  as  visible  objects  on  which  his 

^1^*8  must  have  rested  frequently,  will,  I  feel  certain,  when  I  shall 

W\  at  them,  tend  to  encourage  me  in  overcoming  difficuUies,  of 


MjZ^izirie. 


^ 


%   . . :  -:i-:  =    -    .L.:  r:  ^r  .-  f.r  u:>e -a  ho  wbh  to  contribute  their 
^  -'*    '    ■•-   :"       -i-     ■■:::  .:-:r=^^  -''—'^P  of  this  world.     Ilisihis 

-  —  •      -  ^  ■     ■  "  * "  ir-.ti  .Mi  rven  to  jlII  the  world,  which 

*■----      -    * ;  '■    .:: :~  -■:-:".  r  f-iure  generations,  and  for 

.  *:  :•--::  .L-  :  ;_?  "iss  1=::  Messrs.  Chance  Bros. 
^  -  *-  *  -  -'  ■  *  ..  :■  '  L'T  "-i>j.r  f.rni  having  been  the 
'  '  ""  :  ^  M  .-  _  . :  1  _-^.  ?c«".z  :-.i-  Sfemens  regenerative 

-  *■  ■  -  ■..::•:...<-  -  ~  -  :re:-r-:  communication  with 

-  -         .-..7   ■■■-.;■=■:-: -r.^r.::  only  hi  sex  traordinai)- 
.■'■--.    :-^   ■-.■.r:_^-    sirji^hrforwardness  and 


'.  » » 


-    t:;::-:  _-.  ri-:a::or-,  and   I  quote  two 

■?■.:-,■.  -.      .  ■-:  ^ ';*:?:•: si.  ^  c:r-.ersadon  with  a  mutual 

■-::■-■.-  :"-:       v:  "i  >-i  r.::  leen  a  pupil  of  Sir  \\\ 

^  .     -  ■  ^-  ^      • «  - .  :  -  I    f  :'':>-:  -a  -.0  Trere  working  with  him 

:     .     -":..       ■   '     .".         i.T:-  -i.i.  i>  I'.r  5C.!:  of  the  earth.    A 

:.  -   .  .■  .    ■  .■  ■■,■^f^.i  vz: >=".:.!>  s'-ror.^'y  impressed  not 

.  '      •  --■-.        ■  -  :!"--:  -.:^*".  ~«.  *:.■.:  "a-iih  Jiimiration  of  the 

1     .    >■  -    r  ■      ■    ■  ^        " '-  -■■-  •-- >:-"Ir.e<5.  of  his  educational 

N..-   v:..    -_  r  ^-..-r-i.-.-. :".;-:;.    Tr.e  German  A  the  narum 

v.-    ..  .   .       .  -  .'         >.  ir:=  ':.i5  '.rs:  ir.   your   bte   husband 

.    .    .       >  ".    ,.   ..r:   >  -v   :-e  ;    ■•.  ::.e   5:-:\-:zg   student,  as  well 
-:.-:■   ,^    ^.  .    .  -•      ..!.>:..■■  :v."  i^r.erictor  and  a  patron; 
."   .*.      *    '".  .    \:         ■  *  >^"..*  -"  -    -  . :   ::■:    l-:*v  death,  manv  will 
..   .  \    ..••...*      ,"..-*...  .:■  s  j;v:r.  r.:<  -.^e  again  !         .An 
.   '    .-:   ■   ..■•    >   .  V-    ..  -     ":    ••T\;-.:>e  '.ifc  has  been  spent 

.  ■'-.     -  .    ;:.-.5  :\:  .■..■.:  ^r.  :■  ucIn  creatures.''     Manv 

V  :  i"  .::.->  •  .  '  i  ::  ".  ."■.;;»■  \.:-2  ::*.:*j^his  of  some  of 
'  .s  ::  x",*>  .  •  "..:,.  ■  >  ,!..::.  i- '-rji-i^jZe  S" ;cr:  as  this :  "We 
,."..  :V:  >::..>  N  ,"..  >■'  :i.-.  -.:*;:  >.:••.-  r/.^ch  y:  :rer  his  loss  had  left  the 
\\.':\\  '.v.'.\  ■.;.  ■.  >  ;.<  ■  V  vi. :  w/.^r.  •'..■'.  cf  :r.e  vi^rcir  of  his  endless 
: :* : i : . >: %  '. •.*. /.  . : : ^  : i " . :\;  ....  ,ir . .. r.  j.  :. .::..  r. ?:  cz .y  by  his  genius  and 
■  * :  a;  h  i  ■: :  i  * .  i  V : ,  ". ; :  1 ;.  '  .  >  : :' ;.  r  v  i " !  j  •.:  s  b  c  r.  e  v  j*  c  ncc  and  t  ender  con  - 
s.v'.vT.:::.'".  >v^  :V.'.".  ^^.-.^  '..0  ^:'k:r.d  fi-;:*".:*^  .'.r.i  :r.c'.:ght  for  others.  He 
\\.*is  ill  .;  V.i^h  v^\:-.is:  :;-.o  v.>>i:55jr  cf  :>.c>e  swee:  domestic  virtues 
which.  \\hi!c  </  >.::y. 'c  .;r..:  'j :;»"<:;: :-.:.-.:;ou<.  were  so  spontaneous  and 
i  h-iraiin.:.  W':-..::  .:::  e:r.:"er.:-v  wc.'.-r.'^unied  life  was  his  I  Our 
children  wiH  .:I*vay>  reniexber  h.->w  he  was  heM  up  to  them  as  a  man 
almost  without  an  ev]ual.'*  A  cor.f.dential  servant,  who  had  lived  in 
his  family  many  years,  wTOte  of  him  as  the  most  Christ-like  man  she 


IViiliafii  Siemens. 


30I^H 


Kvef  met ;  and  that  he  always  reminded  her  of  the  Arab  prince 
whoasked  the  recording  angel,  when  writing  in  his  book  the  names 
of  those  who  loved  the  Lord,  to  write  him  as  one  who  loved  his 
fellow-men  ;  the  angel  wrote  and  carried  the  book  to  heaven,  bring-    i 
ing  it  back  again  to  show ;  and  when  the  prince  looked,  lo,  his  namfrj 
led  all  the  rest  !  ■ 

Of  his  family  relations,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Haweis  thus  wrote,  in  a  ' 
'iim.an  on  "  Friends  !  "  "  What  a  beautiful  sight,  loo,  was  the  friend- 
ship of  the  late  Sir  William  Siemens  for  his  brothers,  and  theirs  for 
K  I  not  less  beautiful  because  lived  out  unconfciously  in  the  full 
are  and  publicity  of  the  commercial  world,  into  which  questions  of 
liinityare  not  supposed  lo  enter,  especially  when  they  interfere  with 
I  hasiness.  But  here  were  several  brothers,  each  with  his  large  firm, 
I  lis  inventions,  his  speculations,  yet  each  at  the  other's  disposal ; 
I  Uner  eager  to  claim  his  own,  never  a  rival !  These  men  were  often 
r  wparated  by  time  and  space,  but  they  were  one  in  heart." 

One  who  had  exceptional  opportunities  of  knowing  him  wrote  ; 

"Hii  characteristic  of  intensity  in  whatever  lie  was  engaged  in  was 

tnatkable.     Even  in  his  relaxations  he  entered  into  them  with  his 

"iiole  heart ;  indeed,  it  did  one  good  to  hear  his  ringing  laugh  when 

Wtnessing  some  amusing  play— the  face  lit  up  with  well-nigh  childlike 

pleasure — no  trace  of  the  weariness  which  had  been  visible  after 

I  day  of  work  of  such  varied  kinds,  all  demanding  his  most 

sffious  attention,  involving  often  momentous  world-wide  results.     As 

'  Ifavelling  companion  he  was  indeed  the  light  and  happiness  of  those 

^lio  had  the  privilege  to  be  with  him.      Everything  that  could  lessen 

■"'gUe,  or  add  to  the  enjoyment  and  interest  of  the  journey,  was 

wolight  of,  and  tenderly  carried  out,  and  the  knowledge   of  the 

P*5Siire  he  was  giving  was  his  sweet  reward.     Young  people  and 

'^J"Mren  clustered  round  him,  and  he  spared  no  trouble  to  explain 

""^Wy  and  clearly  any  question  they  asked  him." 

The  Rev.  D.  Fraser,  in  a  funeral  address,  said  ;  "  The  combina- 
|""l  of  mental  power  with  moral  uprightness  and  strength  is  always 
""Pfessive.  And  this  is  what  signally  characterised  him  whose  death 
,  fnoum.  There  have  been  very  few  more  active  and  inquiring 
""'Ids  in  this  generation  :  the  keenness  and  swiftness  of  his  intel- 
"^^vul  processes  were  even  more  surprising  than  the  extent  and 
''^'"iety  of  his  scientific  aitainraenls.  But  such  powers  and  such  ac- 
'''"reraents  have,  alas  !  been  sometimes  in  unworthy  alliance  with 
'^ous  dispositions  and  a  low  moral  tone.  What  will  endear  l«  us 
"^e  memoiy  of  Wilham  Siemens  is  that  he  was,  while  so  able  and 
^*ilful,  also  so  modest,  so  upright,  so  generous,  and  so  totally  Uti 


i 


r:nz  il  ^^— :^T-:c-i  jr-i  \i.r-r:c<-  zt  irlr.z.    .Vnd  God,  whose  wisdom 
i.-:c  -*:r:r  :•:  -:v.-:-.  .       v  ri.  ":.l3  uiin  '"in  from  us  !  " 

\  i-.  Vc  '.:-  -i.i.:  :.  -  :r:ir  -^  Ij  i  deeper  insight  into,  and 
:  zr^iL^r  v-^i  :.::  :^':  : 'i  .'i'  .^~'L  ii'i^se  vc-JLi  of  His  which  he  so 
•  tf-i  :.:c  '.::^-  '.*:  -":  vi  _— ^.zc  i  ^eiter  fulness  of  joy 
-\. :  -M.  \\  •  •  -'•  :  V  .:  *  :?  -:  :  vi  -.oiz  ir. crease  of  his  know- 
•:'■-;:.  :.:!  ."  -  ?u.:-.  *^  ;  :•  ir;- -v...:  ::"  the  creil  warm  heart  and 
:•  I-  •^.-.-:  x:.::  \  l-  -  :  .i_i-7  :i:i  "±-;  berlnning  of  better  things? 
:•  •*¥  .: !  v:  :.:  '-:  r  i  rjr.iri  so  richlv  endowed  there  is 
' .;^ * ^^  ^  -c  :_  "i:  .-  i::  ^  li^i  i^i  t'rr  >irr::e ir.  the  great  Eternity? 
>.  *  <. : .  .  •■:  ^-:'  :  -  -  :.:  :  iTerr**  :^'i  rower  cannot  be  laid  low 
*  -.  -  : -:-  .  .  :  :.:.'^  ..  ::<^  :c:  all  wiU  live  again  in 
^   .'-  ^-;v  •-:  -    ^.:".  ^.  "^'.ci;.   ':ti"^J,  ard  gifted  spirit  has 

.:<.-v:--.  . :  : ;  *  ^  c  *  :  •  o  ":  '.-tr  Jz.  iri  -r.'ji  us  is  left  an  influence  for 
^;t  o  ■%  *  .  '  :.L  T'-  :  :  "  lic  :>  J::.?  ^izerauon  is  now  profiting  by 
:v  -.."..LT  -::...  ^  V  •  .  :-.  vi  ij.r.>.  jcur.uess  ages  ago,  so  will 
:*■,•  ^:c.-^  .'.;---  "  J.11  5.  :rntz:?  frirzi  a  store  of  knowledge, 
>c,    ..:    *    *    \^  .  .  -  :-:i  5:  ::cv:.Lrz^e::eri:ion5»  and  destined 

*  ,v  \'  : :  ■ '  .-^'>.  ;:-.-:.-  .'^"i  -^r  .mz  "cw  esrlma:e«  on  the  evcr- 
^J.    *.   \.    .     s:    :     -.    .V,'.    :'i    .'    :>.e   z::ral,  inteUectual,  and 

"•^L    LAXT    ^ARPENILR. 


303 


SCIENCE  NOTES. 


Why  Great  Men  are  usually  Little  Men. 

IN  the  last  volume  of  the  " Zeitschrift fiir  Biologic  "  is  a  paper  by 
M.  Rubner  on  the  influence  of  stature  on  that  decomposition 
of  matter  upon  which  vital  energy  depends.  That  small  animals 
consume  more  oxygen  in  proportion  to  their  size  than  large  animals 
has  been  already  shown  by  Regnault  and  ReiseL  Rubner's  researches 
have  been  devoted  to  comparing  different  sized  animals  of  the  same 
species,  all  of  which  were  subjected  to  the  same  conditions  of  tem- 
perature and  exercise. 

His  results  are  expressed  in  the  following  table :  the  first  column 
giving  the  weight  of  the  dog ;  the  second,  the  amount  of  daily  vital 
combustion ;  the  third,  the  amount  of  this  in  relation  to  the  weight. 


Body  weight  of  Dog 

Calories  per  day 
per  kilogramme 

Relative  formation  of 
heat 

31  2 
24-0 
19-8 

i8-2 
9-6 

6-5 

3*2 

35-68 
4091 

4587 
46*20 
65'i6 
66-07 
68-07 

100 

114 
128 
129 
182 
'      184 
247 

Rubner  attributes  all  the  difference  to  the  relatively  greater  surface 
of  the  smaller  animals,  and  consequent  increase  of  the  loss  of  animal 
heat  by  greater  surface  radiation. 

But  there  is  something  more  behind  this.  Why  is  the  animal 
heat  kept  up  ?  Are  we  to  regard  the  animal  as  merely  a  fire  burning 
to  waste,  or  as  a  furnace  which  by  its  combustion  generates  vital 
power? 

Assuming  the  latter  to  be  correct,  as  is  now  universally  admitted, 
the  smaller  animal  has  a  larger  relative  supply  of  vital  power  than 
the  larger,  but  both  having  muscles  proportionate  to  their  size,  the 


304  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

excess  of  vital  energy  of  the  smaller  is  available  for  the  supply  of 
brain  power. 

Therefore  the  little  man  is,  cateris  paribus^  better  supplied  with 
brain  power  than  the  big  man.     Q.  M  D. 


Thk  Chkmistrv  ok  Manuring. 

ONE  of  the  most  definite  and  simple  teachings  of  modem 
chemistry  to  agriculturists  is  that  afforded  by  the  analysis 
of  the  ashes  of  plants.  These  aslies  represent  all  the  mineral  matter 
that  the  plants  have  taken  from  the  soil,  excepting  the  nitrogenous 
compounds,  which  are  volatilized  when  the  ash  is  obtained  by  ordinaiy 
burning. 

This  being  known,  and  also  the  composition  of  the  ash  of  his 
manures,  the  farmer  who  knows  a  little  of  chemistry  may  select  the 
special  manures  suitable  for  maintaining  the  fertility  of  the  soil  in 
reference  to  special  crops,  and  thus  supersede  the  "four-course 
system  "  or  any  other  rotation  of  croi)s. 

An  interesting  and  simple  application  of  this  is  afforded  in  the 
case  of  the  mountain  pastures  of  Switzerland,  Norway,  and  other 
countries  where  such  pastures  produce  nothing  but  milk,  Lc  from 
which  nothing  but  milk  is  carried  away. 

Supposing  that  they  arj  to  be  manured,  it  is  evidently  very 
important  to  learn  exactly  what  manure  is  required,  as  the  cost  of 
carr)'ing  heavy  loads  of  useless  material  to  such  elevations  would  be 
ruinous. 

About  25  per  cent  of  the  ash  of  milk  is  potash,  and  another  25 
is  phosphoric  acid,  the  remainder  being  22  of  lime,  11  of  soda,  15  of 
chlorine,  and  a  little  iron,  magnesia,  and  sulphur.  The  chlorine 
and  soda  are  returned  to  the  soil  by  the  salt  supplied  to  the  cattle  as 
l>art  of  their  daily  food.  Thus  there  remain  but  little  more  to  be 
supplied  than  the  potash,  phosphonis,  and  lime,  and  the  question 
whether  these  are  required  at  all  depends  upon  whetlier  the 
disintegrated  rock  matter,  which  forms  the  scanty  soil  of  these  chalet 
and  saeter  jKisturages  contains  these. 

In  most  cases  they  do  contain  the  potash  and  the  lime  (granitic 
rocks  usually  are  well  supplied  with  potash  compounds^  as  in  feldsparX 
and  thus  only  a  little  of  phosphorous  compounds,  such  as  bone  dust,  or 
the  supeq>hosphates  of  our  artificial  manures,  are  required  to  maintain 
perennial  fertility. 

Of  these  only  as  much  as  one  man  could  carry  on  his  back  would 

ice  annually  for  several  acres. 


p^l^o 


Thisnole  is  suggested  by  some  recent  analyses  of  the  ash  of  cow's 
°*''V  by  M,  Scbrodt  and  H,  Hansen,  by  which  the  variations  of  the 
i-'oinposition  of  the  ash  at  different  periods  of  lactation  have  been 
"^eteniiined. 

L  Alcohol  and  the  Lower  Animals. 

I  'V  N'  KnmL'hdge,  October  24,  1844,  is  an  account  of  some  cxperi- 
-L  menls  that  must  have  severely  shocked  the  more  ardent  ab- 
stainers from  ardent  spirits.  Fishes  {Prussian  carp)  apparently  dead 
^'•'cri:  supplied  with  brandy  in  very  serious  quantities,  and  were  revived 
f  hcrcliy,  while  others  treated  on  blue  ribbon  principles  died. 

I  have  lately  made  similar  experiments  on  actinia  (sea  anemones) 
aoU  antheas  {the  species  on  which  I  experimented  were  actinia 
rwt^imbryanthemum  and  aniliea  cereus,  both  from  the  Black  Rocks, 
Brighiok). 

These  animals  being  very  demonstrative  of  their  state  of  health 
t»>"  expanding  and  contracting,  opening  and  shutting,  displaying  or 
ctincealing  their  tentacles,  and  even  showing  signs  of  life  when  in  a 
stale  of  partial  puHrJaction,  dying  only  bit  by  bit,  are  well  suited  for 
such  esperimcnts. 

I  found  that  the  inspiring  influence  of  alcohol  on  languishing 
^TXumens  was  very  decided,  but  that  they  resembled  human  beings 
-*y  suffering  still  more  decided  subsequent  reactian. 

The  experiments  were  made  by  adding  whisky  and  brandy  to 
*'^e  water  in  which  they  were  immersed,  and  comparing  the  con- 
'^'tion  of  the  specimens  thus  treated  with  that  of  others  maintained 
^■^  temperance  principles.  They  were  all  a/terwards  returned  to  the 
^'■ger  aquarium  from  which  they  were  taken  for  experiment,  and  the 
^'"^oholized  specimens  were  in  the  course  of  slow  dying  (as  is  their 
"ont  when  they  do  expire),  when  1  added  alcohol  lo  this  larger 
^lUarium,  but  in  a  very  small  proportion.  This  killed  the  whole 
'''^ily,  and  also  a  vigorous  periwinkle  and  some  previously  healthy 
'>'i»Ssels. 

On  the  other  hand  I  supplied  a  sickly  chicken  with  a  leaspoonful 
■^hisky  in  a  small  saucer  of  water.      The  invalid  drank  it  volun- 

Al^^ly  and  greedily,  and  recovered. 
\,  Cannib.^lism  of  Fishes. 

FEW  weeks  ago  I  opened  the  stomach  of  a  cod-fish  weighing 
9J  lbs.  I  found  in  it  two  full-grown  herrings,  one  large  whiting, 
**«  codling,  sc\-en  flounders,  one  small  sole,  and  one  small  skate,  all 
~  vou  ccLviii.    NO.  1851.  y 


3o6  The  Gmtlematis  Magazine. 

newly  swallowed.  From  the  mouth  of  the  whiting  a  laxge  live  woim 
issued.  Iksides  these  were  half-digested  remains  of  other  fi^ 
chicrty  flounders. 

All  the  lar^e-inouthed  fishes  are  curiously  voracious  and  usually 
cannibals.  I  have  seen  a  small  eel  swallow  a  still  smaller  eel,  head 
first,  the  tail  half  of  the  swallowed  fish  projecting  from  the  mouth  of 
the  swallower,  and  mtjving  for  some  hours.  The  swallowing  thence- 
forth proceeded  very  slowly,  evidently  according  to  the  rate  of  diges- 
tion jf  the  part  that  had  reached  the  stomach,  as  some  days  elapsed 
before  the  end  of  the  tail  of  the  swallowed  fish  disap[)eared. 

To  show  the  mouth  cajxicity  of  some  fishes  take  two  John  Dorys 
of  e(iual  si/e  ;  open  the  mouth  of  one  to  its  full  capacity,  and  it  will 
be  found  large  enough  to  take  in  the  whole  of  the  second  fish.. 

Naiional  Fimi  Hatching. 

WE  hear  a  good  deal  about  the  Nationalisation  of  the  Land. 
Mv  readers  need  not  be  alarmed,  as  I  am  not  about  to 
disxuss  that  question,  but  to  suggest  that  we  should  do  a  great  deal 
more  than  we  have  «lone  hitherto  in  the  Nationalisation  of  the  Sea. 
The  facts  referred  to  in  the  above  note  show  that  young  fishes  need 
protection,  not  only  from  their  recognised  enemies,  but  also  from 
their  own  mothers  and  fathers. 

The  United  States  have  a  well -organised  and  working  Fish  Com- 
mission. The  reports  published  by  the  Commissioners  since  their 
appointment  in  1S71  are  highly  interesting.  The  Commissioners 
conmienced  with  scientific  work — learning  what  fish  existed  on  the 
}''.ast  Coast  of  America,  and  the  changes  that  had  taken  place  as 
regards  abundance  and  distribution ;  and  then  proceeded  to  practical 
work. 

Their  results  by  no  means  confirm  Dr.  Huxley's  idea  that 
dredging,  trawHng,  netting,  and  other  kinds  of  fishing  have  no  per- 
ceptible effect  on  the  supply  of  fish,  but  prove  the  contrary. 

Wien  America  was  first  discovered  its  coast  was  swarming  with 
fish.  Cape  Cod  received  its  name  from  the  abundance  thereabouts. 
Now  it  is  a  rare  thing  to  catch  cod-fish  within  several  miles  of  the 
shores  where  formerly  they  might  be  hooked  from  the  rocks.  Even 
in  deep  water  they  are  becoming  scarcer. 

The  fish-hatching  experiments  of  the  Commission,  which  failed  at 
first,  finally  became  successful,  and  now  preparations  are  being 
made  for  the  establishment  of  a  great  laboratory  and  hatching  station 
at  Wood's  Holl,  Mass.     Millions  of  young  fish  will  be  sent  out  from 


Science  Notes.  307 

this  station  to  all  parts  of  the  New  England  coast  and  there  launched 
in  the  ocean  to  struggle  for  themselves. 

The  Norwegians  are  also  doing  what  we  are  still  neglecting  to 
da  Last  year  their  Association  for  Promoting  the  Sea  Fisheries 
hatched  seven  millions  of  cod,  haddocks,  &c.,  and  expects  to  turn 
out  fifty  or  sixty  millions  this  winter.  Having  shown  what  ought  to 
be  done,  and  can  be  done,  the  Association  has  appealed  to  the 
Norwegian  Government  to  act  for  the  nation  in  developing  the 
unappropriated  national  harvest  field,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  that 
Government  will  do  its  duty. 

It  is  evident  that  such  work  can  only  be  done  by  the  nation. 
Private  enterprise  is  absurdly  out  of  the  question.  We  might  as 
well  ask  private  enterprise  to  build  and  man  the  navy,  as  that  it 
should  stock  the  coast  with  fishes  for  anybody  else  to  catch.  An 
improvement  in  our  fish  supplies  benefits  the  whole  nation,  and  the 
nation,  as  a  whole,  should  pay  for  it.  We  can  nationalise  the  sea  at 
once  without  attacking  anybody's  rental,  and  the  national  outlay,  if 
judiciously  made,  would  be  a  very  profitable  investment. 

Our  Supply  of  Soles. 

I  MAY  add  to  the  above  note  a  fact  which  comes  within  the  reach 
of  my  own  recollection.  More  than  forty  years  ago  there  was 
suddenly  discovered  on  the  east  coast  of  England  (Yorkshire,  if  I 
remember  rightly)  what  was  then  called  "  The  Silver  Bank."  London 
for  a  time  was  glutted  with  soles,  that  were  retailed  at  twopence  per 
pound  or  thereabouts.  These  soles  were  dark  slate  coloured,  nearly 
black,  on  the  upper  side,  and  at  first  many  of  them  were  very  large — 
there  were  monsters  among  them.  Gradually  the  average  size 
diminished,  then  "  slips  "  were  caught,  and  finally  "  The  Silver  Bank  " 
ceased  to  be  important ;  whether  it  now  exists  at  all  as  a  fishing- 
ground  I  do  not  know. 

I  am  only  speaking  from  casual  memory,  but  it  would  be  well  if 
somebody  who  knows  more  about  this  bank  should  supply  accurate 
details,  as  its  history  would  supply  crucial  facts  for  testing  the 
question  of  whether  trawling  does  or  does  not  drive  away  ground 
fishes,  and  supply  data  as  to  how  such  trawling  should  be  limited  and 
regulated. 

The  diminution  in  the  size  of  the  soles,  and  the  present  scarcity 
of  large  soles  everywhere  indicate  pretty  plainly  that  ruinous  exhaus- 
tion may  and  does  result  from  trawling.  Practical  fishermen  are 
tolerably  unanimous  on  the  subject;  and,  greatly  as  I  te.s.^^cx.  \^. 


3o8  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

lluxicy,  I  think  that  he  is  quite  wrong  on  this  subject,  and  tku  his 
authority  is  doing  mischief. 

I  have  been  out  with  trawlers  and  greatly  shocked  at  the  waste 
offish-life  they  effect  in  sweeping  ruthlessly  over  areas  of  sea-bottom 
measurable  in  square  miles,  and  bringing  therefrom  almost  ereiy 
living  thing  that  conies  in  front  of  the  wide  jaws  of  the  trawl,  the 
mouth  of  which  is  as  long  as  the  ship,  which  drags  it  at  the  rate  d* 
one  or  two  miles  per  hour.  A  fleet  of  trawlers  thus,  with  a  good 
breeze,  make  a  clean  sweep  of  many  square  miles  in  a  single  day,  and 
the  fish  that  escape  the  "pocket"  of  the  trawl-net  are  probably 
frightened  away,  and  forced  to  live  in  deej^er  water  beyond  the 
trawlers'  reach,  or  perish  altogether. 

TiiK  Protection  of  Sea  Birds. 

ARM  we  acting  wisely  in  protecting  sea  birds  on  our  coast?  In 
suppressing  the  brutal  propensities  of  bloodthirsty  savages  who 
go  about  with  guns  killing  birds  or  any  other  creatures  for  mere 
amusement's  sake,  wc  certainly  do  well.  Nothing  can  be  more  dis- 
gusting than  the  contemplation  of  a  boatful  of  these  degraded 
wretches  shooting  sea-gulls  with  roaring  exultation  at  the  fall  of  each 
of  their  helpless  victims. 

From  an  economic  point  of  view  the  excessive  multiplication  of 
these  birds  is  by  no  means  desirable,  and  such  excessive  multiplica- 
tion seems  to  be  their  habit  wherever  fishes  exist  in  sufficient  quantities 
to  sui)port  them. 

I  was  led  to  reflect  on  this  during  a  recent  trip  to  Torquay.  The 
(Ireat  Western  Railway  skirts  the  sea  between  Exminsterand  Newton, 
where,  during  the  last  six  or  seven  years,  since  I  have  become  £uniliar 
with  this  coast,  a  great  increase  in  the  number  of  sea  birds  appears  to 
have  taken  pla(  e.  Can  we  spare  them  the  vast  quantity  of  fish  which 
they  consume? 

A  Pkrfixt  Filter. 

IN  the  CompUs  Rendus  (vol.  99,  p.  247)  is  a  paper  by  C 
('hamberland,  describing  a  filter  made  of  unglazed  earthen^'are 
("biscuit  porcelain  "),  through  which  the  water  is  forced  by  pressure. 
The  filtration  is  said  to  be  perfect,  the  small  organic  germs  and 
microbia  failing  to  pass  through.  This  was  proved  by  filtering  very 
impure  water,  and  careful  microscopic  examination  of  the  result. 
The  material  of  this  filter  is  easily  cleaned  by  brushing  and  heating 
to  destroy  the  arrested  organic  matter. 


Science  Notes.  309 

This  reminds  mejof  a  filter  that  was  used  by  my  schoolmaster, 
and  by  others  at  the  same  period,  but  seems  now  to  be  almost 
forgotten.  It  was  simply  a  lump  of  porous  stone — sandstone 
apparently — which  was  called  "filtering  stone,"  This  was  hollowed 
out  to  form  a  receptacle  for  the  water  which  oozed  through  and 
dropped  very  slowly  from  the  under  surface. 

It  is  not  at  all  surprising  that  such  a  filter  should  become 
obsolete  ;  besides  its  cumbrous  mass,  it  must  have  been  very  difficult 
to  clean  when,  like  all  other  efficient  filters,  it  became  clogged  with 
the  impurities  it  arrested.  ;^ 

These  objections  do  not  apply  to  the  biscuit  porcelain,  which  can 
be  made  thin  and  light,  and  of  any  convenient  shape.  By  supplying 
the  filtering  material  in  duplicate,  and  arranging  it  for  ready  removal 
and  replacement,  periodical  purification  by  brushing  and  baking  could 
easily  be  effected.  The  pressure  might  be  supplied  by  connecting 
the  porcelain  vessel  with  an  ordinary  domestic  water-pipe  supplying 
from  a  good  height. 

My  experience  of  "  rapid  "  filters  is  by  no  means  satisfactor}'.  I 
lately  purchased  two  of  different  kinds  that  are  largely  advertised, 
and  have  since  abandoned  them,  finding,  as  I  might  have  expected, 
that  their  inefficiency  is  directly  proportionate  to  their  rapidity. 

M.  Chamberland*s  experiments  do  not  seem  to  be  known  in 
England,  and  therefore  I  hope  that  this  note  may  "  meet  the  eye  "  of 
some  enterprising  manufacturer  who  will  construct  and  supply  an 
avowedly  slow  filter  for  household  use  where  a  moderate  quantity  of 
truly  purified  water  is  required  for  drinking  purposes.  About  one 
gallon  per  day,  rather  than  several  gallons  per  hour,  should  be 
attempted  and  avowed. 

The  kind  of  porcelain  required  is  that  which  is  largely  used  for 
the  porous  cells  of  voltaic  batteries.  Its  manufacture  is  perfectly 
well  understood  at  the  Potteries,  and  it  is  very  cheap.  Common  old- 
fashioned  tobacco-pipes  are  of  similar  ware. 

W.    MATTIEU   WILLIAM 


.%■•-. 


I 


1.    .  i_    -_ 

t:.    -  :.::.i.:rri  —  z  rt-ztr.z  number 

1:  -:  r-i  >;■■=.:  riir::T2nr  errors  in 

-        -^L  :_-:  "±2  =_r_5^  :f  :he  word 


^^  —    .    '    ^  *       ^^    ^^^  J 

•.y-j".-..  .-.    -.    _.   .:--j'    .■      _    r___-.  .tCc-.  5^^"rvu  01  a 

."--";   —  ~  -"i"  "•  ■  ■  -■  :^  -    ■  ■  -  '  ■    -    ^^  ■-—  •  ~-'-  r  *•  Tx:  Ic^!iz  under 

--_--.--.-      -  •                      ^.  .    .  .     -                .,  .-  i. . «,  -^  i    r  .  ,  p.  ,'  -  X/j^, 
:     ;,     ..  ."•?.  ;_;     ..V;-;_..  ?cr >   •  -  TT.r,  lHjuci 

•    »_  ^«  .«  _  «..-^  .,  .  .._..^...  -m^^^m     «.•>_         m.    .  ,^  "^  ,?T  liT^ 

"J-    : :  s :     - .      ;  _-  7-   -.'    -      ~:-:  :."—*.  lzj  err:r  ^iTTizced  in 

:-=  ;>s^     >■-';:--..:        ^  :■    -        .:l  -■     •  *  .T*;rr*:*i5e  s  rjr^rLitive. 

'•*;"'*:n^      1'.  "'^      *.     ~"       .:.T-.~  *";.'-"  -    rr  :  ill  _  2—  !<    nI'.Q  :  a 

v^r.  T.  * ;  ?^  ^      ■.-..:-        .       •  . :     :  if     .— . .--ir.:  "srh-i:  crrr.jrleie 
r:;--.rj^      :i;     -.::-.>::  f^  ■-.-::*     :  r;':::.'"     If  i  vesiel  is 

:_. -1  ,_-r.;  '  .   :-.:.-     y-;-.       -::.ii^  .;:-  ::i^ie  .y  writers  other- 

-  •    ■ 

•.i-?:;!  :i^i  ~5:  r.v-     ":  .::  —  :.   -  ;  >..-  -^  ~rr;~  T>.er.ce-"     'Whence 

"•'-•  —  i    •*-  ■  —     — ■  -      -"-      -  -    ."- -  .■  «  .         ._;."-        ._.._...  M     « •'    -*-  .-    ^  ■..*•,    .-^fi^e 

a-aiv  T.  :'"•  -■■  -  -  ■ .  •     -"  -  - .  -  i   -...-._.  --,-:--•  ^^  well  s*iv  to 

■  ■  *  •  '  *  ^^_ 

..- .  —i...     1     --.-- v.;    _  .  i ^ ..   1 . .  .  .  >   ^  .     *-.w     C\.>»CliCC 

^. .  ■»  A  ~  ■  —  ..      -  ? ^  •   .  v^.  .  .  •»  V  •  c —  _».?..,  iroul 

•  —  -i    ifc  '    •   ■*  "C   ■■^•    •"  .L  —       •  -    .■.—  ■—.—   -.     -  -     •    ■-  — *   •  •  J     -  -  -~  .*<•   ■     •■^•^  "i    •ST'y    ifl- 

sunces  cferrjr?  :f  ii:.v  i.::..:Tir.j;.  :.r.i  :.^  -^'m  i  sh^rt  irejLiise  on 
the  ^.buses  cf  !-r.^-- .:;.;.  :'::  •..>.:.-.  .r.  >.?  :  xr.  wjrks  a  your.^  writer 
should  keer.  i  cizzi^'.  l-ck-:-:.  Ir.  .:-  ^.uiir.i-m  to  Tochucter's 
article  the  lollowir.^  su^rtiv.c'.y  cor.:::  r/.Aturt  cf  ccnfused  meuphois 
is  quoted  from  a  newsparer:  "A  r.ew  •;.:.*:. rr^  in  the  social  onange- 
its  of  the  Central  Radical  C.-L-  :. -.  c /.j/e"  the  oier  evening." 


TaAle  Talk.  311 

"Talented,"  which  Coleridge  denounced,  "  as  though  there  were  a  verb 
to  talent,"  "  lengthened  "  for  long,  and  "  more  than  halved,"  are  among 
the  words  or  forms  against  which  Mr.  Todhunter  protests. 


Degradation  of  the  Language. 

IT  is  curious,  if  not  specially  edifying,  to  watch  the  gradual 
process  of  degradation  of  language  to  which  I  have  referred. 
Dabblers  in  philology  are  well  aware  how  words  like  villain,  for  instance, 
which  originally  signified  a  farm-servant,  a  serf;  knave,  primarily  a 
boy,  servant ;  rascal,  which  expresses  plebs;  varlet,  a  younker,  and  so 
forth,  came  to  be  used  as  terms  of  reproach.  Nice  observation  is, 
however,  necessary  to  see  the  process  while  it  is  current.  Our 
squeamishness  with  regard  to  expressions  void  of  the  slightest 
offence  is  a  signal  cause  of  corruption.  One  word,  the  simple 
signification  of  which  is  bath,  has  obtained  a  reputation  altogether 
unsavoury,  and  I  have,  in  like  fashion,  lately  seen  the  word 
lavatory  applied  to  localities  in  which  not  the  slightest  provision 
is  made  for  ablution.  The  most  curious  instance  of  misuse  I  have 
recently  seen  was,  however,  in  a  London  daily  newspaper,  in 
which,  d,  propos  of  Christmas  weather,  a  correspondent  dating  from  a 
country  town  said,  "Frost  and  snow  have  been  experienced  in 
neighbouring  parishes,  hut  here  the  weather  is  seasonable."  There  is 
"  much  virtue  in  a  "  hut  as  well  as  an  if.  It  proves  in  this  case  that 
in  the  opinion  of  our  writer  seasonable  has  lost  its  true  meaning, 
and  has  become  a  useless  synonym  for  mild.  Such  instances  of 
ignorance  are  common  enough.  That  last  quoted  illustrates,  how- 
ever, the  manner  in  which  deterioration  of  language  is  wrought. 


A  History  of  Taxation. 

SO  far  from  belonging  wholly  to  political  economy,  the  question  of 
taxation  is,  both  socially  and  morally,  of  wide-spread  interest. 
I  know  no  subject  that  will  better  repay  inquiry  than  the  consideration 
of  the  kind  and  amount  of  taxation  that  a  people  will  bear  without 
mutiny.  I  do  not  speak  of  mere  grumbling  which  any  form  of 
taxation  is  likely  to  promote,  but  of  absolute  upheaval  Almost  all 
great  rebellions  have  been  brought  about  by  resistance  to  taxes. 
Against  the  unjust  and  excessive  imposts  of  the  Romans,  Boadicea 
fulminated  when  she  led  her  forces  to  battle  with  Suetonius.  In  the 
eleventh  century  Worcester  was  spoiled  at  royal  command  on  accounl 


:\  -;r^:ru_r  -  '  iir  _—  ::  ::=  I  i.:rr:i  i  F:cr  centuries  later  Wat 
7"=r  -.:.  -^  \_:T  :r' -::.■:  V- -  -:sc  l.ti^t.-.- tii  Poll  Tax.  In  1449 
1  -r.  f.-.  ..:  :  r.  .-.  .:-■  ;. :_:  -  z"-Ls^-jrtr  ins  leheided  by  order  of 
J--:-  -: :  '  -  .  : :  "  r-:^.-..:-  i-i  ::  v-t  sli:i^':i:er  of  the  fourth 
i_-  '  * .  -   --_: :   .     i:r  ".  in^urrz^t-L.      Nlze  rears  subse- 

,...-.  ::  .'  ^  .  T-r.jT.  -.  -  ::.:^  ic:.::^  i;.Lin:r.  c:arched  under 
'.  -.  ■...-'-  :--  _  j.-«:  i.:  i^zi-  y.  :rr  ii^Lz  ::::e.  in  presence  of 
:-,  ::=  - ....  '^  ..::  -.— :  ..  iln:.-  i-i-.i  Scf.wi.  Htzrj  VilL  gave  up  the 
..*-"    .  ^       1-.-^.    ii :    .:r:-izziri   i^z-Sclf  wiih  benevolences. 

"!,•     :    ::  .-    .    ::    .^  ,-r^  .i»j  r-<^,s-..-=:c  : :  •::\:r:n  led  to  the  great 
.  ■_    -    :      V  :.::    ■::,  I  ..zi::iC'.ztz^zi  wls  :':.::=  iec.  and  to  the 
.--    .  ■•:--:—:    ...::i-;i^  _: :  :^":    t  "u3  > lived  in  English 

:  -w  -  .  _~:.  ■  .•.:^  z-i^jiTi  1^  i  1  i.--irid  eir^rience,  the 
-.k....:  :*.      ..    .:ri    -i    J-i^:i.   i:  I   I'i   cuibreak   of  the 

*<.  .  •  N.  .:^  —V-  -*■=  -■  J^ri-jcL::  11 \j.:;:n.  In  the  revolt 
,-i  .  X  Ni>:.:  _:o-  .: :  n  :i->.-  :c  :i'  i:  =  -  :ic:l  vennv  "  roused  to 
,v.  ,?, .  ■:  -:'^*:?v:_: : :  1:.  I'u.::  ^:  :^-riirf.  ■»"*•:  h_=i  reaiiined  com- 
.w.-.  ,  •ii.L  .  .«  1:  - .  .Ti.: . .  --  r-iiicrsjw  ,Lzi  the  sack  of  cities— 
*,^^:..-^  ::  ,:;«■  :  vt.  I:  ::;  i-irj  jr^js^-ce  cfAIra,  however, 
%  "^  ■  .V  -  r:  ;>  \  ;^^  :.  r.-Lzii-J.  .:•;  rrc-rer?  nef-ised  to  brew,  the 
:«:v,  >  :,'  :^i,-.  -■;  i..-...^  ::  t:..'  ui-i  difj  lire  came  to  a  stand, 
x--^,-  JL.  15  i  -\s-.ir.i  :,-  --L.j-_:.7.  N:  ?-ch  c-ibreaks  as  taxation 
>wi^  r^v^:^v  -,'■  :  •-  .-,  :  :";j.  jiz-i  jrjo-jel  frc^zn  any  oiher cause. 
V  :•  >:,-r  .  '.:\l.:'  vv  -  v.-.  r»:TeJ  his  vjs:  published* 
:-:'^^r?  >:.v  \.  vc  :.:v  *:;  ^rir:  :c  . •■  er-LixiUoa  Englishmen 
"*ji^r    .-"ci -^"*  '    >.*ei-      ':::><.  .i5^     I-    :cilw>5orl:c  grasp  and  in 

fVLVAMS   URBAN. 
■..-....     i    ~ . 


THE 

GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE. 

April  1885. 

THE   UNFORESEEN. 

By  Alice  O'Hanlon. 


Chapter  XlV. 

TWO   BRIDES-ELECT. 

IN  a  pleasant  morning-room,  square  in  shape,  rather  low  in  the 
ceiling,  and  comfortably  but  not  luxuriously  furnished,  two 
young  ladies  sat  sewing,  with  a  little  work-table  between  them. 
Forming  part  of  a  moderately-sized  detached  house,  not  very  recent 
as  to  its  date  of  erection,  this  room  looked  out  at  the  back  upon  an 
eminently  English  kind  of  garden.  The  centre  of  the  garden  was 
occupied  by  a  small  lawn,  garnished  at  its  comers  and  edges  by  trim 
parterres,  brilliant  at  present  with  the  gorgeous  colouring  of  summer 
bedding-out  plants.  On  one  side  of  the  lawn,  gravel  walks  wound  in 
and  out  of  a  diminutive  shrubbery  of  laurels  and  rhododendrons;  on 
the  other,  appeared  a  row  of  greenhouses  and  cucumber-frames.  A 
holly-hedge,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  lawn,  separated  a  portion  of  the 
ground  devoted  to  vegetable  horticulture,  and  the  whole  was  enclosed 
within  high  brick  walls  with  fruit-trees  nailed  against  them. 

A  very  prosaic  garden  it  was,  all  neatness  and  order,  with  nothing 
unrestrained  or  sylvan  about  it,  and  not  even  a  redeeming  glimpse 
beyond  at  the  low  dappled  hills  which  stretched  at  no  great  distance 
in  an  irregular  semicircle,  shutting  in  the  nearer  view  of  a  sweet 
pastoral  landscape.  Nevertheless,  on  this  v/arm  July  morning,  with 
a  deep  azure  sky,  flecked  by  soft  cirrous  clouds  to  canopy  it,  the 
garden  looked  very  peaceful  and  inviting.  From  the  moming-room 
where  Edith  and  Rose  Ashmead  sat  at  their  needle-work,  two  other 
ladies  might  have  been  seen  pacing  slowly  backwards  and  forwards, 
with  parasols  over  their  heads,  amidst  the  tall  laurel  and  rhodo- 
dendron-bushes.   One  of  the  windows  of  the  room — it  boasted  two^ 

TOL.  CCLVIII.     NO.  1852.  X 


.  -^  :— -z^'. 


Ls  ::  le  "N*: 

*.:<i'*  1  ztr.: : 


_--  -         ■-..._    ^^  j-n  T 


.jm-::-      I  i:j_  r..:  zeed 


z:\.^;^* 

■  .  ;^    »  : 

-  ■  ■ 

'- 

*.    -■•  •*. 

:    ^  :^S>- 

_- 

— 

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• 
m 

—    "  -    "  -«" 

- 

.  .  :  - 

- 

- 

j;iU?C  *: 

n -  r.   •:" 

« 

:-^. 

"   •       • 

- 

t:-  :t-" 

d    •!..--■• 

- 

• 

^ 

y 

ii-:  :  -^  • 

.     .    •-■^^ 

- 

— -^i  ■ 

* 

•  - 

^c -,    :. 

;^v: 

1- . 

■         • 

* 

f. 

Tl' r 'T  Zlif  —  ;^»i  —  ;^^  is  t  J-  be 
-I  i'i  I'iT  r.yZ-zT.       "  A"!  VOU 

m 

LTz  n-j^r.  I  csre  :':-  fzct  to 
:.;i:ir.--r  i-ll  Tzyzr.tr.ci  and 
j:  Z  ::«  ^:  .r.*i-'^e  n:y  own 
.   ":!'   ■;-  :!:.s  r::c*n::n^.  if 


.  —■'   ^  • 


: .  ^   r 


I 


>>,:-"i  .<  *:ci.-^  ■.-'  ?rz  - ;  -  iT-r  :  -"  '*  i\:"j.:med  ±e  younger 
f:'.  cvvrr..-^  >^r  ::i-:^-k:i  !;•.&.  I  •'-s:  this  Lace  |iutting 
r»>-nv:  :r.e^><:   :--::r.:    >:.-;>.     T  =*:   t._   re  j-st  cr.yjgh  for  six 

'•  My  .:\.:r  R:<i  ^u:^'..  .  :^  1.?.:  r^ein  lo  use  that  expensive 
lace  tor  jKKke: - h i r. c kerc r : w :  . ■: r i ;. r-  - 

"  i>ui  I  do,  :h :\.zh.     y\'r.v  r. . :  - 

"localise  i:  is  a  :  :i-i.c  of  j.:s..:vi  extravugance.  Because  such 
things  as  Laco  handkerchiefs  are  :.-.o?i  un>uitable,  behcvc  me,  for  a 
clergyman's  wife." 

**  But  I  don't  believe  you,  you  demure  little  cat  1 "  laughed  her 
sister,  in  a  cheery,  ringing  flishion.     '-  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to 


The  Unforeseen.  315 

be  buried  alive  because  I  am  going  to  live  in  a  country  parsonage  ? 
Why,  Edith,  you  know  that  I  expect  to  mix  in  much  higher  society 
than  I  have  ever  done  yet  Have  you  forgotten  what  aristocratic 
parishioners  we  are  to  have  at  Longenvale  ?  Sir  John  Brentwood, 
General  Fitzhardinge,  and  Lord  Westaxon — ^an  Earl,  think  of  that  I 
And  yet  you  would  prevent  me  having  lace  round  my  handkerchiefs  ? 
Why,  it  ought  to  be  sewn  on  double !  " 

" Don't  be  absiurd,  Rose !  Lord  Westaxon  is. a  cripple,  and,  as 
Mr.  Featherstone  told  you,  there  are  no  ladies  at  Westaxon  Park. 
Besides,  if  there  were,  it  would  be  no  reason  why  you,  as  the  Vicar's 
wife,  should  dress  above  your  sphere." 

"  My  precious  Minerva,  I  grow  more  astonished  every  day  at  the 
mistakes  our  respective  adorable  ones  have  made  I  To  think  of 
Robert  Hilton,  a  handsome,  fascinating,  lively  young  fellow,  choosing 
a  quiet,  puritanical  maiden  like  you,  instead  of — well,  some  one  of 
a  more  springy  nature  like  his  own.  And,  more  astounding  still, 
think  of  my  middle-aged  William  passing  by  the  most  perfect  model, 
the  tie  plus  ultra  of  a  female  ecclesiastic,  and  fixing  his  foolish  affec- 
tions instead  on  a  feather-brained  young  person  who  does  not  love 
her  needle,  but  who  does  love  pretty  garments.  And  then,  mirabile 
dictu  /  the  most  surprising  thing  of  all — to  think  that  not  one  of  us 
would  consent,  for  half  a  moment,  to  reverse  this  wrong-headed 
arrangement ! " 

Miss  Edith  Ashmead  smiled,  and  as  she  did  so  she  displayed  a 
set  of  white  and  very  even  little  teeth,  and  a  pretty  dimple  in  either 
cheek — her  sole  claims  to  anything  in  the  shape  of  beauty.  Twenty* 
four  years  of  age— and  older  in  character  than  in  years,  the  girl's  face, 
when  in  repose,  accorded  with  her  somewhat  starched  and  prag- 
matical disposition,  and  gave  excuse  for  the  sort  of  epithets  playfully 
bestowed  upon  her  by  Rose.  The  latter,  who  was  Edith's  junior  by 
two  years,  had  even  less  pretension  to  regularity  of  feature  than  her 
sister ;  but  she  was  a  happy-hearted,  sunny-faced  little  woman  whom, 
despite  her  plainness,  everybody  loved,  not  only  to  be  with,  but  to 
look  at  Both  sisters,  as  may  be  gathered  from  the  foregoing  con- 
versation, were  on  the  eve  of  marriage.  The  younger,  whose  wedding 
was  to  take  place  within  a  month,  was  expecting  to  become  the  bride 
of  a  gentleman  nearly  double  her  own  age— the  Rev.  W.  Feather- 
stone,  ktely  appointed  to  a  very  handsome  living  in  Surrey.  The 
latter,  two  months  later,  would,  if  all  went  well,  change  her  name  for 
that  •  of  Mrs.  Robert  Hilton,  and  would  then  leave  England  for 
Canada  with  her  husband— young  Hilton  having  been  invited  to  join 
in  business  a  bachelor  uncle,  who  was  the  pivnd^^  Vxv  ^tck^  ^^ 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

extensive  mercantile  operations  curried  on  in  Toronto.     Reudii^it 
present  with  Iiis  family  in  London,  Robert  Hilton  had  maiugcdW' 
arrange  just  now  to  spend  a  coii|)lc  of  days  with  his  fiancee  inlheJ 
rural  district  of  Chvermere  ;  and  Edith  was  expecting  him  to  an 
this  evening. 

Her  amiability  stimulated,  no  doubt,  by  this  pleasing  anticipali 
the  young  lady  now  laid  aside  her  own  work,  and,  contenting  hoM 
with  anolher  sense-of-duty  protest  against  her  sister's  e^clrava^ 
and  vanily,  she  applied  herself  to  that  which   Rose,  with  unsbl 
good  humour,  still  pressed  upon  her. 

"  I  say,  Edith,  how  strange  it  would  be,"  observed  the  yoinip|0 
girl,  after  a  brief  pause,  "  if  Olivia's  future  husband  should  pro«  U 
be  coming  home  from  Canada,  only  such  a  short  lime  before  jwm* 
is  arranging  to  go  there  !  How  do  you  really  feel  about  that  a&ir? 
Do  you  think  it  will  be  renewed?  " 

"  It  is  no  use  speculating  about  such  things,  Rose  ;  one  can 
tell.     But,  of  course,  I  should  be  glad  if  it  were  renewed." 

"  I  should  ihink  you  would  !  It  seems  a  shame  that  you  ! 
who,  although  we  are  younger,  are  so  plain  and  unattractive  compue 
with  her,  should  have  secured  such  good  husbands,  whilst  she — ■ 
"  I  object  to  that  expression,  Rose,"  interposed  the  other,  nt 
tartly.  (Though  it  was  not  this  part  of  her  sister's  remark  Iball 
specially  displeased  her.)  "  '  Secured  husbands ' — what  a  vulgail 
of  putting  it ! " 

"  Beg  pardon,  dear.     Consider  the  expression  retracted 
case  !     But  for  myself,  I  assure  you,  I  feel  as  though  \  had  dropf 
upon  luck  which  I  didn't  deserve,  whereas  poor  Olivia,  whosacriiii 

herself,  as  I  know  she  did,  for  her  (imiily " 

"  If  she  did,  she  ought  nflt  to  have  done  !  "  again  intcrmpi 
Edith.  "  And  I  don't  know  why  you  should  call  her  poor,  Oli 
does  not  pity  herself,  I  am  sure.  She  has  six  hundred  a  year,  J 
plenty  of  self-confidence," 

"  /  should  have  plenty  of  self-confidence  also,"  proteslcJ  Rf 
laughing,  "if  1  had  six  hundred  a  year  !" 

"  Vou  have  quite  sufficient,  my  dear,  without  possessing 
affirmed  her  sister. 

"  Now,  there  you  are  mistaken  \    Naturally  1  am  very 
true,  really,  and  though  I  may  manage,  when  I  am  married, 
about  distributing  tracts,  I  shall  never  have  the  courage  to  ii 
the  poor  women  how  to  clean  up  their  hearth-stones,  or  nurse  t''*, 
babies,  or  manage  their  general  domestic  economy,  as  you,  my    "^ 
Edith,  would  have  been  able  lo  do  in  my  place.     There, 


The  Unforeseen.  317 

look  cross.  We  are  always  sparring,  we  two,  somehow,  but  I  didn't 
mean  to  vex  you.  And  see,  mamma  and  Olivia  are  coming  in  !  Look^ 
Edith,  is  she  not  beautiful  ?  Who  would  believe  she  was  nearly 
twenty-eight  ?  I  don't  think  she  has  fallen  off  in  the  least  all  these 
years.  Douglas  Awdry  will  be  sure  to  fall  in  love  with  her  again. 
Indeed,  I  don't  expect  he  has  ever  fallen  out  of  it.  He  has  remained 
faithful  to  her  memory  all  this  time,  you  know?" 

"  Nay,  I  dotit  know.  And  we  had  better  not  let  Olivia  hear  us  dis- 
cussing the  question.  Rose.    She  would  consider  it  indelicate,  as  I  do." 

"It  can't  be  indelicate  to  want  her  to  be  happy,"  answered  Rose, 
getting  the  last  word,  as  the  subject  of  her  remark  threw  open  the  glass 
door  and  allowed  her  mother  to  precede  her  into  the  apartment. 

'•  Well,  mamma,  how  is  your  head  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Ashmead  replied  that  she  thought  the  fresh  air  had  done 
her  a  little  good.  But  she  spoke  in  a  querulous  tone,  caused  by 
habitual  ill-health  and  mental  suffering.  Dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
and  wearing  a  widow's  cap,  as  she  had  done  for  the  last  eighteen 
years,  Mrs.  Ashmead  still  showed  in  her  features  the  remains  of 
much  past  beauty.  But  her  pallid  complexion,  in  conjunction  with 
the  very  dark  circles  which  surrounded  her  eyes,  gave  her  a  sickly,  at 
times  even  a  ghastly,  aspect  For  this  aspect— or  rather,  the  ill- 
health  that  occasioned  it — a  shock  which  the  poor  lady  had  met 
with,  some  three  years  ago,  was  accountable.  This  shock  resulted 
from  the  death,  under  peculiarly  distressing  circumstances,  of  her 
only  son  and  favourite  child. 

As  the  exigencies  of  our  story  have  necessitated  the  introduction 
of  this  family  to  the  reader's  notice,  we  must  briefly  narrate  those, 
and  a  few  other  circumstances,  concerning  them  at  the  beginning  of 
the  next  chapter. 


Chapter  XV. 

OLIVIA   ASHMEAD. 

A  WIDOW  now  for  eighteen  years,  Mrs.  Ashmead  could  boast  con- 
nection, though  not  of  a  very  close  nature,  with  the  Awdry  family. 

She  had  married  a  cousin  of  the  late  and  present  squire's 
(Douglas's)  father,  and  since  the  death  of  her  husband  she  had  occu- 
pied the  house  in  which  she  now  lived,  situated  about  a  mile  and  a 
half  from  the  lodge-gates  of  Clavermere  Chase,  and  close  by  the 
village  of  Clavermere. 

Poor  in  purse,  but  not  in  pride,  her  conneeUow  -wKvVv  >Jcv^  ^^^ 


^  -    r^r: — -.  ^z   zz't    .zr-zr  lie  W2im 
■~"  .  —    '  .z.z~    zji-z  *' -r  ^ iisirs ." 

- -T-  -•  -7 ;  iz:2z  '.'-2'  z.^  ci-n^iri- 

-      -    :: :        : ::   "l:_^-:  ihz  1  :t  to 

■  r:  .  ir.    It: -.ij  ?   c'r.'.zi  fom- 


.-    'r  :-:   ::  ::?  :rji.  con- 
^.     .   :-   :":-.   1':-^'.^$  had 

i   : --:   T-_£;j.     i-ddged 

■ :  _-  i-r-.-.cr  ^  even  thing, 
■ . " ;    - •  ■  ->i  : :"  ■  -?  "J : - rringing. 

r;-:  ::  I:;r  zr.d  ;>.en  to 
.  -^  ;:  •  :n*-  :r.e  vc-oc  fellow 

':  -:■-  :"-i  Vziversirv  he  was 

•  *.-?:  Tim:-  r  :rder  :o  avoid 

-.  If  :  - -r  ir.::li^i  :o  a  solicitor 

:  ■--:•:  r  : :"  i  i^-- rai: .?n,  gam bling, 

'    :-      i  zT.i  cii-told  one— 

-  ■  ■  1 :"". :  ^.iz"  i  :^  f  ve  hundred 
•  - ,  i  "'  :-fclf ::  ><^  persuaded, 

:i  *  ii'.:5.  ^hilsu  ar  the  same 

-  >.>  U':-c-encies  from  the 
:_-  .-.?  ^■^>  -c^sible.  from  that  of 


_.  «:  I-  .:.:.?:  ::  Mrs.  Ashmead's  affections, 
^  .:,-.  .:  ?:::::  rr^c  rr.d  aim  10  secure  for  her 
.'.r.-;  •  .:"".  7  v^"..:?  Awdr}'.  and  the  adi-antages 
v;  ■>  .-.^v.  .  -;.-i!:-.  .\r i  rrcr.  Iv-ar.d-by,  she  guessed— 
:.:-v:  ^.:i>><\i  :■-  '''^— ••■'••  ^-''--^^  -.ir.is::  friendship  for  the  young 
"■.:::>.-■  ».'!c\  t". '  i*«i  i":-^  .:v.ry  r:u  !: -a ::n:uT  sentiment — her  designs 
vTtr    dickered  in  t'.ei:  ::::eriSi:y.     A  slight  stumbling-block  in  the 


The  Unforeseen.  319 

way  of  their  accomplishment,  however,  existed  in  the  fact  that 
Douglas's  feelings  towards  Olivia  had  not,  like  hers,  changed  in 
character.  To  him  she  was  still  his  "  cousin,"  his  sister,  his  friend. 
No  thought  of  her  in  the  light  of  a  wife  had  ever  entered  into  his  head, 
nor  is  there  the  least  probability  (notwithstanding  a  subtle,  explicable 
alteration  which  he  had  noticed  in  the  girl's  manner  from  the  date  of 
his  return  from  a  lengthened  tour  abroad)  that  it  ever  would,  had 
not  certain  hints  from  her  mother  enlightened  his  perception. 

At  those  hints  Douglas  had  at  first  laughed,  not  believing, 
scarcely  even  understanding,  their  purport.  Then  they  had  grown 
plainer  and  plainer,  until  at  length,  one  balmy  summer's  evening, 
Mrs.  Ashmead,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  had  confessed  in  unmistakable 
terms  her  daughter's  love  for  him,  and  had  pleaded  for  a  return  of  that 
love.  Then,  fresh  from  the  interview,  which  had  shocked,  bewildered, 
but  at  the  same  time  flattered  him,  she  had  introduced  the  young 
fellow  (twenty-two  years  of  age  at  the  time)  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  Olivia  was  singing  in  the  twilight,  and  had  there  left  the  pair 
together. 

The  device  was  a  cunning  one.  Olivia  Ashmead  possessed  a 
sweet,  well-trained  voice,  whilst  Douglas,  as  his  "  aunt "  knew,  was 
peculiarly  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  music — the  "  moody  food 
of  love."  Thus,  loving  her  already  in  his  different  fashion ;  carried 
away  by  the  impulse  of  a  generous  and  sensitive  nature ;  moved  by 
the  "  concord  of  sweet  sounds,"  and  having  his  senses  stimulated 
alike  by  the  witchery  of  the  hour  and  of  the  young  lady's  unquestion- 
able beauty,  Douglas  had,  there  and  then,  offered  her  his  hand.  It 
was  the  one  weak  moment  in  the  life  of  a  naturally  strong-minded 
man  ;  and  scarcely  had  it  passed,  ere  Douglas  recognised  its  weak- 
ness. He  had  made  a  mistake— a  vital  mistake — and  he  knew  it 
directly  the  irrevocable  words  had  escaped  his  lips. 

This  was  the  episode  in  his  history,  which,  it  may  be  recollected, 
the  young  man  had  related  to  Claudia  Estcourt  on  the  day  when  she 
had  promised  to  become  his  wife  ;  this  and  the  sequel,  which  was  as 
follows : — 

For  eighteen  months,  or  rather  longer,  the  engagement  had  con- 
tinued, Douglas  striving  all  that  time  to  hide  from  the  girl  whom  he 
felt  honourably  bound  to  marry,  the  fact  that  he  did  not  love  her  with 
that  potential  love  which,  when  it  takes  possession  of  the  heart,  is 

Not  to  be  rcasonctl  down,  or  lost 
In  high  ambition,  or  a  thirst  of  greatness  : 
*Tis  second  life :  it  grows  into  the  soul, 
Warms  every  vein,  and  beats  in  every  pulse, 


»     *> 


J  ;.-  1  v;^.  i  .   Mi^izzju, 


—  ::r   ?-'r     •      ••  :   t:._:.  :c    Lr.  ijj":-..'.  !•:  Tcman  ia  the  world  eTer 
:^v_  .r  .".-r  .      ;   —   \  tjza^it:  n  iim  ':i:r  ClanrlLi  hcsel£ 

;:r  ;n^  .  ::»  n^ntiri^  rcnLti.  rie  ^izerpccted  annoiiiice- 
r.^n:  :n  ..f  .r^M.-r-  ^sr-  .!  m  nnisccr  M  z::arTy  hod,  all  at  OQCCi 
•■  :r.:r:\T-:  I  i^  i:?  ■  >:"  :r:  ii  :.:?  :cir.  izc  iltirrf  most  matenallj 
•.?  —  >"c- r-  7-rr..^:::-T-'-   \:iin.  ^ ..  '^  .Vshniead  had  throvn 

..:::  ■•  ;-  :.:•:  -v  :..  :.:;i  _:::r  rxic  .:jii  cn^p^ed  herself  lo  a  bi^, 
"\.^\:  •j*:<::z^  •.  : .:  '  c*:.  iniCiilii-i^i'i  ziiz.  who  lived  iiLa 
-ic:^ -.jt.-r  ■-:  ". r.  \  :  --c  ii::: .-.-  i^i  :c-=  i  rawrbroker.  and  whose 
■*r-i  :v:ij  -.'.'jcr.: -tiu-::  :.  -*  Lr  i=  I 'ru^lis  cculd  perceive,  was  tiiat 
:-  v;5  i  11.:^  .;  ir:  •^:  :;  \ :.. — :.  uzd  .vei  is  i  fcuje,  pretentious 
:■.l;-^i  -  1  s:r     i     "  >?  :«:'."v..i  i  ]:^'.\:  i-.f  j.  bamck. 

\  .*v.  ;.L.:«:u^:.  5-r  :.i  :wi  -.irr,  i::s  r^ieaaeorom  his  engagement 
!i^  :er:!i  ::  r«:iiLr.ii  Vv:r  i.  -nhxts  :evi:cd  cne  power  of  words  to 
«!.irriSi — i  :«ti:rcns:-:v-r  %:..:>.  tad  iv^ii  n^:occ{Ied  him  to  the  loss 
vTt'  :.-  n  ":^r:u--:»:i  —  ■>  .  m  i  :  iitinn  >a«i  Tu-:^«;d  him  sorelv. 

rVra:  .i'.o  ^.r  . M  :.::i  :■?  :'i  :  c.-.-jicei.  i=d  it  was  this  con- 
^^:•.  ■:.":  : :.::  '^  :  :•:  .  :  :  :"  ::  "ii--:'.  o/. .vilr:ui*y  drm  to  his  own 
"•.o.i:i  -c"  \..L.:  k.'  :  'i-r  :.-  I  .iricr.  ±Ji  5^*e  Iv%-;^i  gold  with  that 
*i:ri.c  7A?;?n.u  -x  '...*.  .:  jt::  .:.-.jOi:  v -"-  Ls  ^«:i;uis;dor.  warped  all 
■?th«ir  v:-:~5;den:  :~5.  'vi  1.-1  z-:z.  izd  a: old  no:  believe.  Nevertheless, 
:>i:  O..V.1  ::ai  >:  i  --rj,:!:"  :':r  =iccev  se.'med  clear.  How  else 
could  :r:j:;*r?  :«;  j.\7Li..:'id  ' 

W.:!-  yrci^  Avir.  5  '..zz.'.zL  *i7':»*e-*^e  o"  the  circumstance,  it 
was  r.o  wccder  :>^:  >.i  j>.:-d  >i-.e  :l^:  rerplexed.  But  there  was 
a  kev  ::  :>.e  rlddli.  !::•'..  '.:  5*:~:e  e\:e=:.  r.e  had  guessed  it.  Olim 
.\sbr:'<-J.  r-xr  ^r.  '■.::'  <:.i  !:ir^c'.:":>r  r:op.ey,  butshe  had  not  done 
>?  (•::  h-T  cvr.  %ikr  A>  R.-se  >.-.i  :rj  y  jrr.rmevi,  she  had  sacrificed 
herself  :*.T  !  er  :".i:..  y.  A:  :**e  '.  :r.-  '-r.crjre  when  this  reversal  of 
fonur.e  1  ad  ili'ler.  .:--cr.  Dcv.^Lls.  Hc^rbeit  Ashmead  had  returned  to 
his  home  like  a  :h!e:  ir.  t'e  r.i^h:— returr.ed  to  hide  there  in  disgrace 
and  in  debL  and  w::h  the  shadow  of  crime  lying  darkly  upon  him — 
the  crime  of  forger}-.  For  six  months,  as  the  wretched  joung  man  had 
averred,  discovery-  ci  this  crime  was  not  imminent,  but  its  detection 
at  the  close  of  that  period  would  be  unavertable,  unless  he  could  take 
up  the  forged  bill,  which  was  to  the  amount  of  a  thousand  pounds. 
That  amount,  Herbert  had  declared,  he  must  either  beg,  borrow,  or 
steal  before  the  day  of  reckoning  came,  or — in  cool  blood  he  swore 
it— he  should  commit  suicide  in  order  to  escape  the  horrors  of  dis- 
grace and  punishment 

Now,  to  raise  a  thousand  pounds  had  become  impossible  to  poor 


The  Uiifinsem.  321 


Mfs.  Ash  mead.  Already  the  foolish  lady  had  bestowed  upon  her 
H'orihltss  son  every  penny  upon  which  she  had  power  to  lay  her  hands. 
Ilic  remainder  of  the  family  projierty,  fortunately  or  unfortunately, 
was  secured  under  trust  for  the  benefit  of  her  daughters,  and  she 
could  not  touch  the  capital.  But  Olivia  could  save  iliejamily  I  This 
soon  became  apparent  Mr.  Smith,  her  millionaire  suitor,  would 
wish,  if  she  accepted  him,  to  marry  at  once,  and  he  had  proposed 
^  Mrs.  Ashmead  to  settle  on  his  wife  a  thousand  a  year  for  her 
own  personal  expenses,  out  of  which  sum  the  bill  could,  of  course,  be 
nitt  Thus,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  Olivia  had  been  borne  down 
tij  circumstances.  Urged,  with  piteous  vehemence,  by  her  mother 
loibis  immolation  of  self  on  the  altar  of  that  mother's  idol ;  impelled 
by  ihc  horrible  threat  of  his  own  destruction,  which  her  brother  had 
not  scmpkd  to  malce  free  use  of,  and  which,  in  common  witli  the 
«si  of  the  family,  she  belieVed  him  quite  capable  of  putting  into 
tuecution ;  and,  finally,  swayed  by  pride  which  dreaded  exposure,  and 
*liich  was  as  strongly  developed  a  quality  as  any  in  her  character, 
fJIivia  liad  yielded.  She  had  given  up  the  man  whom  she  loved 
■wre  passionately  than  ever,  now  that  misfortune  had  overtaken  him, 
*"<]  she  had  agreed  to  marry  another  man  for  whom  she  possessed  not 
one  spark  of  affection.  But,  happily  for  her,  Olivia  liad  been  pre- 
'■enied  from  desecrating  the  sanctity  of  marriage  by  thus  entering 
"pon  it  without  that  one  pre-requisite  in  the  absence  of  which  any 
'"*'riage  must  be  indefensible. 

J"he  mode  of  her  deliverance  had,  however,  been  sad  enough — for 
f  ''ad  come  through  the  death  of  her  affianced  husband.  After  an 
"""ess  of  but  one  week's  duration,  Mr.  Smith  had  died,  just  two  days 
"'Te  that  which  had  been  fixed  for  the  wedding.  And  this  had 
""'  t>een  the  end  of  the  calamity,  nor  its  worst  part.  On  the  very 
^nje  evening  whereon  the  news  had  been  imparted  to  him,  Herbert 
'"iittiead,  in  a  fit  of  utterly  selfish  despair,  had  actually  carried  out 
"^  threat.  He  had  committed  suicide  by  taking  poison,  and  in  so 
'"'^e  had  cast  a  blight  ujjon  his  mother's  life,  from  which  she  had 
^  '"ecovered  and  probably  never  would. 

In  mitigation  of  the  horror,  however,  the  action  {in  the  absence 
*side  the  family  of  any  known  motive  for  it)  had  been  attributed  to 
"*^'Oent.  Moreover,  the  memory  of  the  ill-fated  young  man  had  been 
^^d  from  obloquy,  and  by  means,  after  all,  of  Olivia's  intended  self- 
^*'ifice.  Had  be  but  lived  a  few  days  longer— though,  to  be  sure,  the 
-  ^^ongation  of  his  life  had  not  been  ablcssing  to  be  greatly  coveted — 
^rbert  would  have  learned  some  tidings  that  had  come  upon  the 
'^'ily  like  a  thunderclap  of  surprise.     These  tidings  related  to  the 


r!;  :-'-:-i  -:i  ?^l.-  -^  r.  : :.  :n>»c::i-:  i  :rr^  'rJji  !u5C  illness.    UTien  that 

=  ;«:-::r.:r-  v:-  -:.::.  -  :.-:■=.:.-:•:  -.:.::  v.e  ▼crtliy  man  had  bequeathed 

:   M  --  >.   -7: ;.::.  ::..r-  "jc-'rv-^d   ^rrniiscd  irife,"  a  certain 

":r  :    :    -^-~.: —  v-.j::-  t-:;.:    irrs  j:er  in  .7  n  income  of 


t. . .  ■  '^ . . . 


I  ■  .J.. 


^    t 


\ . 


*-..  -        ■•    '■   '  -       -    -  -••  -    — ■». —      —--.  ...  v^Xk'-kS  01   lour 

'i  w:.  .  ..   -.  -       ■  :■:     :    :^ :  LI  i:-i  i\:-,iii  md  n:or:L":s  that  bad 
J  .■    ..:  4i     :...-■.■■:::.-.:         •.:  »..?;: r.:e:i i  >-id  jumed  towards 

.  -.-  -A-i- :  ..'  "\'trr.7.^  i.-fec^DO-     *'  Love  is 

.:  * ..         -     .  ~:  :•?:  irs  y :  j  .  "  jjsd  Soathey, 

•V  ■     ■    -..     -^  -  :.^  :•:  :  "    ^  "  ^ -c<  ^.:  \-s  ls  :j  issert,  •"  Thev 

-  ■*   \  '      -       '        ;  ..:  •  H  .  V  -  :r  :   1:  m^;-  :e.  *.»".:*."]a"5  love,  ai 

•     -.:       '.:      .       .:—-.:.   :.-:.:- -j.  :.- i  ?:r^r2~cn.     I:  ha-i  no: 

■  •  •  •  «    ■ 

..-•_  .'>-  ■  4.  .  _  c-  .:;r'.  ..^7Z  "o  MJ.V  in  ttiis 
\  :  ■  -.^  I  •:  .  •  •  -,.>-.  -  -  1  >:  :.^  j^  \:i  z^-tr.  :z  Can^di  she  had 
'-,:.:.     ,"      . '-    •- ...  .:  --^   ^-ev  :".:^:  '--i  '-ad  remained 

■_^  .:  — . .  •..■:■.  ■:-....-.:  ^  -..  .  5.:s:  r^d  e\r rested  :o  her 
s;-:.-.  ■  -  •  :?  :  .  *  -  :*: .  .:.-:'.  :?■:  i-  ■.  >.  •J".v-i  h.iu  been  secretly 
::>:.:     •    •.'.  ".■-■:.        li :    ::.:  ::::--. -id  "  rairiiful  to  her 

rj^r :::;.'  ::  ^;  ::  .'..'  t.::  ::^i  ^.^:  :.-::.  >?.  "-diinz  by  her 
■;\-  :"..    •^-.  -  ■      ^   ,:•"  —  :r:,'  :;"  \:  t  -j-::!i  :':a:  >i  had  never  really 

v..  j:— -^;  ;,   ■:  - •:  ^:.::.        ■.■:  —I  -v;-  ir  susrecte*!  young 

A^.:r■.  ?  :  "i  :■  .:':•-  -.  '--:-  .■^■*.  ':•  1  'mi  ree::  of  that  high 
:  •  >.  :-.  ■\-  :"'.  ..:'.  -  ~  *:  :  :  -sf-f.:^'.  -.!ic-.:=r.i:  had  mingled 
^-:  -a.:  ".c^;-  _:  :~:<.  •:r--:7s.  — .:';r  £\av:::::i  cr'  his  company 
v.:-..:--^  :>■:  7^:  -i  :"  :*:*  j-^^u-r.- -::-:.  :  ^:  never  of  his  caresses. 
^.•,:>-'J•.:  v:  1  : -:  *-:*■  i  ■;.*  v-i'.  .■:  :^  ::r  i...  .'e  r-ic  as^ed  her 
t:  '. ,  ■"  -  ■*  .v.  -".   '■. .!   ■:■..■>'-•*.'  :  r.:."-:l  ri7e::::or:  of  his  love- 

■■;-'.   ::r' ■--—.:::--,  r:  -vi.:  nireriesL     To  know 


Vi   . 


:''  .:  **e  :\  -:.■*:"- 1    ;•  :     ■::!".'  ".  ■  tl   "zr.  >.:i  '-^eer.  enough  for 

..e.  V.  > .  .. .  ..      '  --'—  -    -       _  -  >~ .  •■»..■•  -  -  >-  »»i^  .cmukC  SBicn- 

r:cj  I.: .".  ".\:^  *.  c. ::•.■. -*.:;:■.:  ::""  ,~.  :'.'.:  -"'-•  s"':-ld  r/.arn-  another,  wiih- 
•  '.::  ;."••  .'.  ■.  r.  :  ."  ::':'•.•  .  ■::  5^  ^  "'.•:::'"  "'"ich  !:ai  become  a  [lOrt 
c:"''^:  v^r^-  l':-^  a".:  ■a-.  \  r^'.'.iiv:  .:  "^as  s:  .Jca!.  so  unvuigahied 
Iv  .:r.v  cir-c:..-^  f  <cr-..-.r.:.  *>.:  ..li  >.j.rd"v  ihoufiht  it  would  be 
r.ev"i>CNirv  to  :r.'  iv;;-.  :.-  '.j.r:sr.  :>:?.:  her  heart  after  nurna«c. 
Nevcrthi'less.  wher.  »ir.'.:>.  /..vi  r:";;::->;d  >cr  frcrr.  the  contersrlaied 
ur.ion  wi:h  Mr.  Sr::h.  >!,:  :..:.:  :*;..:  "  "<:-  .'  b  :d  !e:  cut  of  a  scare,  era 
c.iptivo  \\>.o  h.id  esc-ytd  :  .r.  ■*  >:r.  :-.:i:  ::-  '.  :"e.  Ar.d  now  Douglas 
w.'s  cor.::r.j  h:r.:e!  For  :h-:  .15:  \t"<  "tt^^  O'.Ww  Ashmead  had 
bee::    livfnc  in  a  :r7.r.>ror:   of  sec--.-:  :  :>s.     Tha:  the  en^a^ement 


Tlie  Unforeseeti.  323 

would  be  renewed,  that  she  might  still  marry  this  man  whose  love 
she  had  once  thrown  aside,  she  had  never  actually  said  to  herself. 
But  he  should  learn  now  why  she  had  given  him  up ;  he  should 
know,  if  he  cared  to  know  (and  Olivia  did  not  doubt  that  he  would 
so  care),  that  through  everything  her  heart  had  been  true  to  him ; 
and  then,  perhaps  ....  At  this  point  she  always  stopped  short, 
refusing  to  admit  to  herself  how  much  she  was  blindly  hoping  for — 

Alas,  that  love,  whose  view  is  muffled  still, 
Should,  without  eyes,  see  pathways  to  his  will ! 

But,  at  any  rate,  he  was  coming  home  !  He  was  coming  home,  and 
she  would  see  him  !  He  was  coming  to  live  near  her,  and  to  go 
away  no  more !    That  was  enough — more  than  enough  ! 

On  returning  to  the  breakfast-parlour  that  bright  summer  morn- 
ing, after  her  stroll  in  the  garden  with  Mrs.  Ashmead,  Olivia  took  up 
some  sewing  which  she  had  undertaken  to  finish  for  Rose.  To  both 
her  sisters  Miss  Ashmead  had  made  a  present  of  their  wedding  out- 
fits, and  there  had  been  no  stint  in  the  liberality  of  her  ideas  as  to 
their  requirements.  But  she  had  insisted  that,  in  order  to  lessen  the 
rather  heavy  expense  of  the  double  occasion,  the  two  girls  should 
make  such  of  their  own  garments  as  they  were  able  to  manage. 

And  whatever  Olivia  enjoined  generally  found  itself  accomplished. 
Since  the  death  of  the  worthless  scamp  who  had  tyrannised  over  the 
entire  family,  Olivia  had  wielded  the  domestic  sceptre  and  held  the 
reins  of  government  But  she  had  not  done  so  with  a  high  hand, 
neither  had  she  based  any  assumption  of  authority  on  the  fact  that 
her  ^600  a  year  enabled  her  to  play  the  part  of  household  provi- 
dence. 

Of  her  money  the  young  lady  herself,  at  least,  always  made  very 
light.  Her  supremacy,  so  far  as  it  went,  had  been  half-consciously 
thrust  upon  her  by  the  natural  head  of  the  family  (whose  weakness, 
bodily  and  mental,  increased  continuously),  and  half-consciously 
accepted  by  herself  as  the  due  of  her  own  strong  firm  will  and 
sound  common  sense.  With  such  qualities,  as  must  at  all  times 
ensure  their  owner  distinction,  with  greater  talents,  higher  capabilities, 
and  decidedly  more  beauty  than  either  of  her  younger  sisters,  Olivia 
had  always  been  looked  up  to  by  the  latter  with  great  respect ;  and 
whilst  intuitively  they  guessed  that  the  buoyancy  of  spirit  and 
radiancy  of  aspect  which  had  of  late  characterised  her  were  to  be 
attributed  to  the  approaching  return  of  the  owner  of  Clavermere 
Chase,  neither  of  them  would  have  ventured  to  rally  her  upon  the 
subject.    As  for  Mrs.  Ashmead,  although  formerly  she  had  been  so 


The  Gentlaiuin  s  Magaztnt, 

anxious  lo  make  up  ihe  malcli,  slie  no  longer  desired  its  rew 
The  selfishness  which  her  son  had  inherited,  and  which  his  traininc 
had  so  terribly  exaggerated,  had,  without  question,  come  Troni  her 
side  of  the  house  (whereas  Olivia,  and  Rose  also,  to  a  certain  exteat, 
semblcd  their  father,  whose  character  had  been  of  a  very  difTerent 
stamp);  and  that  selfishness  prompted  Mrs.  Ashmead  to  wish  that 
her  eldest  daughter  might  now  remain  unmarried,  in  order  tliai  she 
might  devote  hur  energies  to  nursing,  and  her  little  fortune  to  pro- 
viding comforts  for,  her  amiable  self.  Like  Ediih  and  Rose,  Mrs, 
Ashmead  had  refrained  from  addressing  any  spccuIatioDs  to  Olivia  as 
lo  the  issue,  in  her  regard,  of  Douglas  Awdry's  return,  but,  at  the 
same  time,  she  had  occupied  her  mind  pretty  frequently  with  the 
question. 

If  they  had  only  known,  all  four  of  them,  how  vain  such 
speculations  were  to  prove  — how  futile  and  absurd  were  the  hopes,  the 
fears,  the  dreams  that  respectively  possessed  ihem  !  Uut  enlighten- 
ment  was  at  hand. 

After  an  early  luncheon,  the  two  brides-elect  started  in  each  other's 
company  for  a  constitutional  walk.  A  little  later,  Olivia,  driving  her 
mother,  set  off  in  a  pony-carriage  for  the  small  market-town  of 
Marleythoqie,  distant  about  four  miles,  with  the  object  of  making  a 
few  minor  purchases  on  Miss  Rose's  behalf. 

Two-thirds  of  the  journey  had  been  accomplished,  and  the  fat 
little  pony  was  trotting  leisurely  along  the  country  road,  when  a 
carriage  approaching  from  the  opposite  direction  attracted  the 
ladies'  attention. 

"  Look,  Olivia,  is  not  that  Mrs.  Awdry's  landau  ? "  demanded 
her  mother.  Olivia  studied  the  open  carriage  with  its  handsome 
pair  of  grey  horses  for  a  second,  and  returned  an  affirmative  reply. 

"She  is  alone,  mother,"  she  added,  "Shall  we  slop  and 
speak  ? " 

This  question  was  settled  by  the  drawing  up,  as  they  came 
abreast  of  it,  of  the  more  imposing  equipage.  It  contained  a  lady 
attired  in  the  deepest  mourning  and  wearing  a  widow's  bonnet  and 
vtil.  Throwing  back  the  latter,  the  lady  disclosed  a  young  face, 
with  a  certain  doll-like  and  rather  inane  prettiness  about  ii, 

"  I  was  on  my  way  to  your  house,  Mrs.  Ashmead,"  sheiemarkcd, 
leaning  over  ihe  side  of  her  carriage.  "The  very  first  call  I  have 
found  spirit  to  make  since  my  poor  husband's  death  ! 

"We  will  turn  back  with  you,"  interposed  Olivia, 
"We  were  only  going  to  Marleythorpo  on  an  errand  c 
consequence,  which  can  be  put  off  until  to-morrow," 


But "  j 

ia,  courteously,     j 

nd    nf  nn   armmt         I 


Unforeseen, 

'•Not  at  all!  I  couldn't  think  of  sudi  a  thing,"  returned  the 
young  widow.  "  And,  in  any  case,  I  should  only  have  been  able  to 
slay  a  few  minutes.  My  sister  .\nnie — ihe  one  from  Westmoreland, 
you  know— is  coming  tliis  afternoon  to  spend  a  week  >vitli  me,  and  I 
must  get  home  to  receive  her," 

"  ;\h  ?  That  will  be  a  comfort  to  you,"  observed  Mrs.  Ashmead. 
"And  I  am  glad  to  see  you  are  lookingmuch  better  than  when  I  saw 
yon  last." 

*'I  don't  know  that  I  am  fteling  much  better,  thank  you.  But 
the  fact  is  that  I  am  excited  just  now,  and  angry,  very  angr)-.  1  was 
coming  to  tell  you  about  the  cause  of  it." 

Her  companions  uttered  simultaneously  some  interrogative 
exclamation. 

"IVhat  do  you  think,  what  do  you  think,  is  the  reason  why  my 
'»t)Uier-in-law  has  put  olThis  return  to  England  so  long?  You  would 
"ever  guess  I  You  would  never  believe  that  any  one  could  be  so 
""feeling,  so  heartless  I  " 

"  Douglas— Captain  Aivdry,    I   mean— is    neither   unfeeling  nor 

"Unless,"  protested  Olivia,  with  a  sudden  heightening  of  colour. 

"I  think  you  will  admit  that  he  is  both,"  rejoiced  Mrs.  Awdry, 

^'■"eo  you  know  what  he  has  done,  when  I  tell  you  that  he  has 

■cinajiy  married  since  his  brother's  death  !    That  in  a  few  days,  now, 

^  will  bring  his  bride  to  Claverraere  Chase.     A  bride  just  after  a 

'^^f^l  !     My  poor  JuHus !     Don't  you  consider  it  shocking,  Mrs. 

■'^''*"n«d?' 

■^ts.  Ashmead  looked  at  her  daughter  ;  but  Olivia  had  stooped 
Picic  up  the  driving-whip  which  she  had  let  fall,  and  her  face  was 
*^e:»i  from  view. 

much  surprised,"  stammered   the  elder  lady. 

*  *^M  arc  sure  it  is  true?     We  had  not  heard  of  any  engagement." 

,,       *  Neither  had  I.     But  there  is  no  question  about  its  being  true, 

,     **     Has  written  to  the  house  about  having  rooms  prepared,  and  lie 

^    W'titten  to  me  to  Maylands.     Of  course  he  offers  some  sort  of 

"  '^^^Se,  or  apology — but  nothing  can   excuse   the   action   in   my 

■.-.   '^i^)n.     My  poor  boys  dead — and  my  husband  scarcely  cold  in 

*^<Dffin — and  his  own  brother  to  choose  such  a  moment  forgetting 

^•~«-ied  I  ■' 

]j^^  ''  They  were  half-brothers  only,  Mrs.  Awdr>-,"  corrected  Olivia, 

"^ing  up  after  recovering  her  whip— her  complexion  of  a  curious 

j^^V   shade,  her  whole  frame  quivering  with  sudden  mental  anguish— 

jy^  *^    her  first  impulse  that  of  defending  the  man  she  loved- 

*"-     Awdry  has  been  dead  two  months,  and  more,     Besides,  yoi 


••v< 


"And 


326  I  he  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

must  remember,  they  were  never  upon  very  aflfectionate  terms  ;  and 
•  .  .  and  I  have  no  doubt  that,  if  we  understood  all  the  circumstances, 
we  should  see  that  the  haste — though  it  comes  with  a  little  shock  to 
us—has  not  been  so  great  as  we  think,  and  that  .  •  •  that  it  is 
pardonable — ^justifiable." 

**/  shall  not  pardon  it,  at  any  rate,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Awdry.  .  .  . 
'*  Oh,  I  had  <iuite  forgotten  !  " 

What  she  had  forgotten  the  lady  did  not  say — ^but  she  sat  gazing, 
for  some  seconds,  at  Miss  Ashmead's  changed  countenance  with  an 
air  of  wonder  and  curiosity  in  her  own.  That  look  and  her  exclama- 
tion brought  the  colour  back  in  a  rush  to  Olivia's  cheeks.  She  bent 
forward  smiling.  "Do  you  know  the  bride's  name,  Mrs.  Awdiy?" 
she  asked,  **or  any  ])articulars  about  her?  This  news  has  taken  us 
quite  by  surprise  ;  but,  you  see,  we  have  known  Douglas  Awdry  ever 
since  he  was  a  boy  of  ten,  so  that,  naturally,  we  are  very  much 
interested  in  it — are  we  not,  mother  ?  " 

Mrs.  Awdry  blinked  her  eyes.  Had  the  sun  dazzled  her,  she 
wondered,  that  she  had  thought  Miss  Ashmead  looking  so  strange 
and  ghastly  ?  It  must  have  been  so.  .  .  .  Why,  yes,  now  that  she 
recollected  that  story  correctly,  it  had  been  she  who  had  given  him 
up,  not  he  her  !  "  Well,  I  do  know  her  name,  but  not  very  much 
else  about  her,"  she  replied,  her  somewhat  stupid  astonishment 
giving  place  again  to  petulant  irritation.  "She  was  a  Miss  Estcourt; 
and  as  one  excuse  for  the  hurried  marriage,  he  declares  that  he  has 
loved  her  for  four  years— ever  since  he  went  out  there  to  Canada. 
Hut  to  marry  directly  he  had  stepped  into  his  poor  brother's  shoes ! 
To  rejoice,  as  I  am  sure  he  did,  over  my  losses  which  have  brought 
his  good  fortune,  that's  what  enrages  me  so  !  I  don't  think  I  will 
have  anything  to  do  with  either  of  them  when  they  come." 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  dear,  you  will,"  put  in  Mrs.  Ashmead.  "  Family 
([uarrels  look  so  bad,  you  know.  I  can  understand  your  feelings;  and 
I  think,  myself,  that  Douglas  ought  to  have  waited  longer.  But  we 
must  all  keep  friends.  It  would  never  do  to  have  a  disruption  in  the 
family,"  she  added,  with  that  assumption  of  relationship  which  so 
often  drew  a  smile  to  the  lips  of  her  acquaintances.  "Oh!  OHvia, 
what  art  you  doing  with  the  reins  ?  lirownie  is  growing  quite  restive. 
I  never  knew  him  do  such  a  thing  before ! "  The  over-fed  pony, 
which  emulated  the  **fat  boy"  in  *' Pickwick  "  in  its  capacity  for 
dropping  off  to  sleep  at  every  opportunity— in  harness  or  out  of  it- 
had  absolutely  kicked  out  with  both  its  hinder  heels 

Olivia  laughed— a  laugh  which  sounded  strangely  hollow  in  her 
own  ears.    **  Perhaps  we  had  better  move  on  then,  since  he  is-  so 


The  Unforeseen.  327 

impatient  ?  Mrs.  Awdry,  Brownie  cannot  be  curbed  in  any  longer— 
the  fiery  little  animal !  ^Ve  must  say  good-bye,  or  he  wiU  run  away 
with  us." 

Only  five  minutes — less  than  five  minutes — that  conversation  had 
lasted.  Yet  for  Olivia  Ashmead  what  a  lifetime  of  emotion  had 
been  compressed  within  this  brief  space !  If  time  is  to  be  measured 
by  sensation,  as  philosophers  have  declared,  years  had  rolled  over 
her  head.  And,  indeed,  the  poor  woman  felt  years  older.  Five 
minutes  ago — despite  her  twenty-eight  summers — she  had  been  a  girl, 
full  of  juvenile  spirits  and  happy  anticipations.  Now,  age  had  fallen 
upon  her,  and  with  it  all  the  blankness  of  life  and  hope  which  failing 
years  bring. 

The  world,  too,  as  she  looked  roimd  on  it  with  wide-open,  pain- 
dulled  eyes,  had  suddenly  withered  and  aged — had  grown  centuries 
nearer  to  its  final  decay  and  death.  It  is  a  trite  saying,  that  we  put 
into  Nature  our  own  feelings — but  who  does  not  know  the  truth  of  it? 
Who  has  not  experienced  the  effect  of  adverse  things  in  drawing  a 
veil  of  gloom  over  the  divine  beauty  that  at  other  times  seems  to  be 
spread  so  lavishly  over  the  face  of  Nature,  and  of  quenching  the 
gladness  which  that  beauty  should  bring?  To  Olivia  Ashmead,  at 
any  rate,  the  fairness  had  gone  out  of  all  things — the  world  of  matter 
had  become  a  dead  body  without  a  soul.  In  five  minutes  such 
**  rancours  "  had  been  poured  into  the  "  vessel  of  her  peace,"  as  for 
ever,  she  felt,  had  destroyed  all  hope  of  earthly  happiness. 

Alas !  in  this  fateful  world  who  is  safe  from  such  sudden  crosses 
and  shocks  of  chance  ?  Who  can  tell  what  tempest  of  wretchedness 
may  not  sweep  over  his  sunniest  sky  at  an  hour's,  at  a  moment's, 
notice  ? 

But  why  should  Olivia  Ashmead  have  felt  so  utterly  crushed — so 
whelmed  and  outraged  by  cruel  fortune  in  that  Douglas  Awdry  had 
done  now  only  what  she  had  herself  once  designed  to  do  ?  She  had 
meant  to  marry  another,  and  he  had  done  so.  But,  oh,  there  was  a 
world  of  difference  in  the  cases !  Olivia  knew  that  she  had  loved 
her  one  love  all  the  time.  She  had  given  him  up  because,  like  a 
heroine  of  romance  (though  she  found  little  satisfaction  in  the 
comparison),  she  had  felt  called  upon  to  sacrifice  self  to  others. 
But  he — he  had  not  married  to  save  a  brother  from  death,  or 
dishonour,  or  a  family  from  ruin. 

In  his  case  there  could  have  only  been  one  inducement  to  the 
act,  and  that  inducement  he  hi^d  owned  to.  He  loved  again — No, 
not  again  !  Here  was  the  sting  of  the  matter — the  sword  that  had 
pierced  her  to  the  heart.     He  had  told  Mrs.  Awdry  that  he  had 


ri-    J- ..-l-r-T^'i  ^/j^jzine. 


"z,       r-.s-  \^  *:r: ^  could  haze  laved  hir ! 

ir.iT  .:  If  tvlH  OS  Douglas  had  known 

. :  'ir       !z  :ar.c>-in^  that  he  had,  she 

.  --  •  -;.  --Jr.  --.crion  :o  her  soul ;  she 

■  "J. I  '-.•:■      i'he  bandage,  however, 

-•  .;-^---  ir.i  5!*.e  saw  :he  truth.    But 

'.r-r:   ii  r>.5  \T.Z'zzr:L.  all  the  sweetness 

_  :         -tr  ::r:-:r«:,  Ol-i via   found  some 

-.-.  1  7"--i  v:e:erniir*at:on  to  hide  the 

. :  ::^-r^  ;  ?:r:rj:  res:!ve  to  allow  no 

:    i-e- -;*;  "tr.      Lr.^iiiag  cheerfully  the 

.       L  :*  ::   Mar'.ivir.or^'e,  executed  all 

::   ;:   :--:=:.:-  >:~:e  was  the  first  to 

.  -  .•-:=  : :  "i:  s.^icts.     -\i2d  both  mother 

..:;    li  :.   "';:  n:-r.nir.     Olivia,  ihev 

.  --..-^;    •  "r:  . '  ":  "   ".e'.  nor  the  lost 

•    .  —  ■;--    ■  "".vso.       Rose  w.:s 

■  :•  -    .-■..■■.  -"w-.:  .:  fc-.v  tear- 

.   .     ;:  :^i-.v  v.!:cn  Ulivia  hnil 

:.—   -;:  -  -  -:::r.^  j-rrof  that  j^^ 

•^:    •.    :^l  ':<--"  :r.jj!:;:nj:  in  no 

.-;,:"  ir  h.Tre  coming  of  the 

_  -  ^     '     :" .  -  >  ;j:  regard.     If  only 

•:.-?<.•:-  :c-cr  Olivia  in  the 

-*^  ::-  i  r-ive  watched  with 

■  -•:  "  ^  *:  -":=r  :he  1*:*^*  had  fallen 

.-    - .:.  !"•:  ^'is  '-.-d  loved  hcr» 

I  -  .  "i-i  :"-:j^r.:  ::'.er.  about 

■;;--■•     I:  :a<es  a  brave 


.  s. 


:?  .-.ear:  ot  even- 


*   "k 


I  :.ke  ::  better  than 


^-  ;  ■       ..:  :'  >  r.:c=:er.:,  because  you 
^    vv,v  .-.'  • :-.  i?  >?  syoke,  at  his  young 
<  -^  ■■-  .;  ^     ::";:  c*'.>c  than  her  fair  sweet 


The  Unforeseen.  329 

face.  The  pair  had  just  finished  luncheon,  and  had  come  into  the 
room  in  question  in  a  caressing,  familiar  fashion,  his  arm  through 
hers.  "  Yes,  just  now,  it  is  a  charming  room  ! "  he  added,  stooping 
to  kiss  her. 

Claudia  laughed  happily  and  coloured  a  little.  She  had  scarcely 
yet  given  up  blushing  at  her  husband's*  caresses.  Then  her  gaze 
wandered  again  round  the  apartment,  which  certainly  was  a  charming 
one.  It  was  a  drawing-room,  longer  than  broad,  and  opening  at  one 
end  upon  a  long  vista  of  conservatories. 

The  furniture  was  modem  for  that  date,  light  and  elegant,  and 
there  was  plenty  of  pretty  colour  to  delight  the  eye  and  please  the 
unperverted  taste  of  the  period,  which  had  not  yet  begun  to  rejoice 
in  bilious-looking  greens  and  faded,  unwholesome  tints,  miscalled 
aesthetic. 

Three  windows,  coming  down  to  the  ground,  were  shaded  by  a 
verandah  which  ran  outside — beneath  which  seats,  and  statues,  and 
large  flower-pots,  with  exotic,  palm-like  shrubs  in  them,  were  arranged 
at  intervals. 

Beyond  the  verandah  stretched  a  broad  expanse  of  park-land,  with 
a  carriage-road  winding  through  it,  and  clusters  of  noble  trees  making 
patches  of  dark  shadow  in  the  sun-lighted  landscape.  Inside,  the 
room  was  cool  and  pleasant,  even  on  this  hot  summer  day,  and  a 
fragrant  odour  of  flowers  pervaded  it,  delicate  and  not  overpowering. 

"Your  preference  does  not  incline  towards  the  antique,  then, 
Claudia,"  asked  her  husband,  as  they  promenaded  the  room  together 
— his  arm  through  hers,  "  since  this  is  the  only  room  with  modem 
appointments?  It  was  furnished  for  my  brother's  wife,  you  know. 
For  my  part,  I  must  confess,  I  like  the  crimson  drawing-room  better." 

"  Well,  of  course,  it  is  handsomer,"  admitted  Claudia ;  **  but  the 
black  oak,  and  those  old  cabinets,  and  the  dark  velvet  are  all  a  little 
sombre.     I  should  say  it  would  look  better  in  winter,  with  a  fire." 

"  You  are  quite  right  Fire-light  and  lamp-light  bring  out  the  rich 
shade  of  the  velvet  upholstery  and  curtains  splendidly.  But  those 
cabinets,  my  darling — if  you  only  knew  how  old  and  valuable  they 
are,  you  would  speak  of  them  with  more  respect ! " 

*'  1  don't  think  I  need.  The  house,  and  everything  in  it,  over- 
whelms me  with  respect,  I  can  assure  you,"  she  answered.  "  If  I  had 
known  what  a  great  man  you  were,  and  what  a  palace  you  were  going 
to  bring  me  to,  I  believe  I  should  have  been  afraid  to  marry  you. 
But  you  won't  feel  ashamed  of  your  wife,  will  you,  Douglas?  "  As  a 
matter  of  course,  this  question  brought  about  a  conjugal  love-passage. 
When  it  was  at  an  end,  Douglas  observed — 

VOL.  CCLVIII.      NO.  1852.  X  K. 


^•o  The  GetttlemaHs  Magasiitf. 


Nofw,  dearest,  I  will  lun  away  and  get  my  business  finished  wit/i 
We  have  only  a  few  more  i^pers  to  look  over,  and  one 
two  nuDor  mattets  to  settle.     By  the  n-ay,  he  told  you,  I  sap- 
Hal  he  could  not  lemain  again   over-night  ?     He  will  leare 

Yes — I  an  tadter  glad  of  il.  He  is  such  a  solemn  old  nuoj 
vith  his  idff,  ceraxKNUOos  manners  ;  and  that  way  he  has  of  loolii^ 
at  one  viifa  tus  spectacks  on  the  end  of  his  nose,  and  his  chic  pro- 
boded,  always  makes  me  want  to  laugh  in  his  face." 

*  He  b  a  decent  old  soul,  though,"  protested  liei  husband,  "and 
be  has  been  the  fantily  lawyer  e%~eT  since  he  was  a  young  fellow  of 
twcfily-fire.  He  managed  everything  for  my  father  and  brotbeT,aiid 
of  course  I  shall  let  him  do  the  same  for  me,  so  long  as  he  remain)  in 
harness  .  .  .  There,  d«3r,  I  shall  be  back  to  support  you  before 
the  callers  begin  to  arrive." 

"  Do  you  think  many  people  will  call  this  afternoon,  Douglas?" 
"  Oh,  yes.    The/11  come  in  '  dozens  and  dozens.     Fathers  and 
mothers,  and  sisters  and  cousins,' " — laughed  the  young  man.    "  Don't 
you  feel  equal  to  the  occasion  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  no.     I  am  not  shy,  certainly,  but " 

"Then  console  yourself  with  the  reflection,  my  sweet  one,  that 
there  are  only  half  a  doicn  families  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles,  and 
that  only  those  to  whom  we  sent  cards  will  return  representauves." 

"  I  wonder  whether  Olivia  Ashmead  will  call  ?  I  feci  quite 
curious  to  see  her,  pouglas." 

"  Do  you?  Well,  I  have  no  doubt  she  will,"  he  answered.  "We 
never  quarrelled,  you  know.  I  was  too  grateful  to  complain  about 
my  release.     And  besides,  1  liked  her  too  well." 

"  You  feel  pleased,  then,  at  the  thought  of  meeting  her  again? 
Douglas,  I  wonder  whether  she  cares  for  you  still?  If  she  does, 
how  fearfully  disappointed  she  will  be  that  you  have  married  t " 

"  Hush,  hush  !  my  dear  child,  you  should  not  make  such  a  sug- 
gestion, even  in  jest,"  remonstrated  her  husband,  pulling  at  hi» 
moustache  with  a  disturbed  air.  "  Miss  Ashmead,  you  must  remera- 
ber,  gave  me  up  of  her  own  free  will;  and,  of  course,  she  has  forgotten 
me  long  ago."  I 

"  Oh,  1  am  not  going  to  be  jealous,   in  any  case,"  laughed    j 
CUudia.  I 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed  1  You  know,  my  wife,  that  you  at    \ 
the  one  only  love  of  my  life— you  believe  that  ?     But,  dearest,"  h*    \ 
continued,  "  try,  please,  to  put  out  of  your  mind,  as  I  have  done  out  of 
mine,  all  recollection  of  my  former  relations  with  my  cousin  Olivi*- 


The  Unforeseen.  331 

Of  course  I  was  obliged  to  tell  you  that  foolish  story  of  my 
youth,  because  I  could  not  have  been  happy  unless  my  whole  past 
life  had  been  transparent  to  your  eyes.  It  would  have  been  impos- 
sible for  either  of  us,  would  it  not,  darling,  to  have  a  secret  from  the 
other?  Still,  it  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  past  mistakes.  •  •  . 
By  the  way,  we  ought  to  be  a  tremendously  affectionate  couple,  if 
there  is  truth  in  those  lines  : — 

I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  well, 
Loved  I  not  honour  more. 

Wc  have  both  suffered  martyrdom  for  honour's  sake,  haven't  we? 
But  no  matter,  we  are  happy  now!" 

"  I  am  happier  than  I  deserve  to  be,"  faltered  Claudia,  a  smile 
on  her  lips,  but  a  pang  of  conviction  in  her  heart  that  the  assertion 
was  but  too  true. 

Honour  ?  Her  husband  imagined  that  she  had  been  a  martyr  to 
honour  !  Claudia  paced  the  room,  after  he  had  left  her,  with  some 
return  of  her  old  anxiety.  Suppose — suppose  that  the  truth  should 
ever  come  to  light  ?  Suppose  that  he  should  ever  find  out — he,  her 
^ighminded,  straightforward,  truth-loving  Douglas — how  she  had 
deceived  him  ? 

The  young  wife  had  hardly  recovered  her  serenity  of  mind  before 
her  first  visitors  were  announced — her  husband  having  re-entered  the 
room  a  few  minutes  in  advance.  They  were  Sir  Archibald  and  Lady 
Newman,  Miss  Newman,  and  Miss  Bertha  Newman.  The  former 
Iras  a  round  &t  man,  with  a  jovial  laugh,  and  an  appearance  more 
like  that  of  a  ploughman  than  a  baronet,  albeit  that  his  title  dated 
from  the  reign  of  James  the  Second.  His  wife  before  her  marriage 
had  been  "nobody'' — and  therefore  she  was  amazingly  particular 
that  all  her  acquaintances  should  be  somebodies.  She  had  thought 
proper  to  express  a  good  deal  of  cynical  doubt  about  the  new  Mrs. 
Awdry.  Who  was  she  ?  **  Miss  Claudia  Estcourt."  And  who  had 
ever  heard  of  Miss  Claudia  Estcourt  ?  A  young  woman  from 
Canada !  Lady  Newman  had  a  very  poor  opinion  of  young  women 
from  the  colonies.  There  was  no  society,  of  course,  in  the  colonies. 
She  was  afraid  it  was  a  sad  misalliance  for  an  Awdry.  Nevertheless, 
she  meant  to  call,  and  she  hoped  the  bride  might  at  least  prove  pre* 
sentable.  Whatever  else  she  proved,  Claudia  proved  to  be  by  no 
mean^  overawed  by  Lady  Newman's  lofty  airs,  nor  by  those  of  her 
two  quiet  and  very  plain  daughters.  She  felt  that  she  was  being 
critidsedy  but  was  quite  at  ease  under  the  process.  All  her  life  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  be  made  much  of,  to  be  admired  and 
.flattered,  and  the  experience  had  given  her  an  abundance  of  jself. 


k.  k  o 


ft    ^.  * 


V 
—  -       * 


- --■.-.•   ... -V-:- •  '•^• 

-"  ---"-  -  ^"  ". -   :'i-    iTw:  ?>.£  Wis  Ldng  "quizzed' 

■-■-"—-'*"-  --    -■    :-tr  r  ^si.Lr,d—3LT.d  her  lack  of 

"T.--^.  :;^  rj.-ili.-^  else  could  have  done, 

:  rri      Zr.    "ir  cw-  mind,  my  lady 

-     ■-      -■      -  -    r  —*     -."d--    ■    :-.:r  :he  thing,"  and 

'-■"'■""■     -■      ••-■--■-  :"i~    .r.i-cti  :-y  this  conclu- 

•  '.    »  :i:    :.  .    :„-_--:    ^..-r*'  were  ^.nnounccd— 

-"     '  - --r*-   -      —  -  -  — -i.::- -?  zn.zbiy  indinerentto 

:  .    -. .  -  — :^  r  ; :     .r  rj=  j  :'  :r.r  :  Jir:  -  e:  5  ladv  as  to  the 

.  *     .    :j.  .  r::^.r_    :_-r.r-    r.rr  iiter.iion  lo  the  new 

: -;  T:':     1^    r  ■. :  =   : -: :  .t  —  :"-.£   irrr.ileman  a  rctirwl 

:-.-,:—-:   :":r    ^-riening — the   lad)r  a 

^  ^---  -■  -   >:=3twha:  prosy  talker. 

r  '      -    -'    *-■;*-:>:-  :.-~rf.rf  :.  :he  bride  and  bride- 

..  •  . .-— -   :  1-    : .;  J-:. .  .u:r  .  rr-wMrdi  :he  conservatory. 

-  ::_    .-         ...--r    :::.-:^-:t-i  r.irj  o.:l  of  polfle- 
"-'    —     ■.:•:::  r:-i^>-:  r=  rreafy  preferred  the 

y-    >:.    ::    :-^:    ::'  :h.r    jir.er — a   characteristic 
""^'      ..-  •-  •...—  —  _..._  *  „,  _  ^  «.  ^v«  •  «.i^e. 

-  -  T  .:     -  _.  .«w  ^«i_i^  inc-icush*  endeavoured 
^     .-.-: . :-:  .     -  . .  T  :  i:  : f  :-ir:  ^lerested  her — neither 

"-'-        -"-^  ?«  =  -~.Lr.  •»:;   Trere  >o  'jn'Ike,  in  their 

-  -''■'    •  --=-^ — ^  s--i — ---r  tie  elder  pair,  whose  cere- 

=-i'r:  zixt  indicated,  had  Claudia 

.".r     — ^  -:  ^t^  i^::i  i^^<  ±^  ±xi5:czce  be:^^^e-  ie."a  of  acovert 

-.-:  v:.-.  "-<<-:  -    !!:?.  Refcrs^-e  burst  in:o  a  long- 

'-  ."-:-;   ■-   -  sir.;<  ::'  ziisfonur.ts  that  had 

:   -:.       i-THir  :-  :he   C'svermere  estate, 

.    -.  .>    ..'.-:     -  >:.?  -^  hrr  yawns*     How  could 

■^     .    k       .."  -     ^.    ".■  ".  :«i  .i::rr:::d  :r4  her  husband's  poor 

-   »      :  ^  -   "..   ■:   :"  ?v-ir.  :::n — ::  ::  drjp  a  •'sympathetic 

.^  ->     •;  -.-.>-:  :."i::t:b:x  was  herself  doing? 

^      '         ~      -^   -      --      .-•■>:-::  r^JT-e,  and  felt  devoutly 

*  '.  '',v-     -.,::>:  :..^  :;-i:  she  had  already  out- 

-  :.  'r:  ::.'.,  r:5e  :o  depart,  carT}iiig 

•    ^       v  ^  .  .       . .    -,-•-  .--.::: 

^    -•-     •-  ^  y..    .    .-..:..  . ij!--  ::  x ear 'Jsa: n^atters would 

.   •     ^        .     '.       -    N.-.  ^~"*  .  ■■.:.^  ".:  y^t  f.nished  his  inspectioa 

.        •     .'■..^-,  :.  .  :  .:::  :--:w  shortly  before  his  death; 

..^  .-  ::,*  c"-.'  :^-%  .,   h.~.  =h£  was  left  to  ihe  tender 

.     TT  -'   ^v  -^   K.v^-i'-;  *>."  :z::ir.:"y:rn:xencedanewtale— and 

^^.  -  -v^    .>.,r.c  ;vc:  ;V-*.-.e    Mrs.  Rsc^r*\-e  was  of  a  njost  philan- 


ftnipic  disposition),  in  whose  concerns  she  wished  to  enlist  the 
nTDpathy  and  assistance  of  the  girl-bride,  who,  as  mistress  of 
CUvennere  Chase,  would  occupy  so  important  a  position  in  the 
Btighbourhood,  and  in  fact  in  the  county. 

The  tale,  however,  had  scarcely  been  well  begun  before  an  inter- 
ruption, very  welcome  to  the  listener,  occurred.  Once  more  the  door 
nndosed,  and  a  footman  in  powder  and  plush  ushered  in  by  name— 
"Mrs.  and  Miss  Ashmead." 

Cbudia  rose  with  alacrity.  Here,  al  last,  was  some  one  to  in- 
lcr«t  her,  some  one  about  whom  her  curiosity  had  already  been 
iroBSed.  She  glanced  beyond  the  elderly  widow,  in  her  sable  weeds, 
Wrards  the  daughter  who  followed  close  behind. 

''\\'hai  a  tetiiaikably  handsome  girl  !  "  was  the  first  reflection  that 
loot  shape  in  her  mind,  as  she  caught  sight  of  a  tall,  full,  Juno-like 
fie-me,  a  well  set-on  head,  a  face  with  a  soft  brown  complexion  and 
Ijfge  grey-blue  eyes.  But  even  as  Olivia  approached  Claudia 
nmdified  her  opinion.  "  No,  after  all,  she  was  not  so  very  handsome, 
neither  was  she  very  young.  The  term  '  girl,'  at  any  rate,  seemed, 
she  thought,  quite  inappropriate  to  her."  Whilst  exchanging 
meetings,  Claudia  detected  wrinkles  on  Olivia's  broad  forehead,  and 
uw^  feet  at  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  Half  unconsciously,  she  cast 
iiuick,  questioning  glance  towards  a  mirrorwhere  her  own  juvenile 
figuie  and  delicate  girUsh  face  were  reflected.  Turning  back  then, 
'ith  a  very  affable  smile  on  her  lip,  she  was  in  lime  to  witness  the 
!»ifl  rise  and  almost  instantaneous  repression  of  strong  emotion  in 
Miss  Ash  mead's  countenance. 

A  moment  or  two  later,  the  greenhouse  door  unclosed  and 
Douglas  Awdry  stepped  forward  to  clasp,  with  a  very  friendly  warmth, 
Ms"cousin  Olivia's"  hand.  His  own  age  within  one  month,  Olivia, 
M  has  been  said,  had  been  the  close  friend  of  his  boyhood  and  early 
yomh.  All  iheir  tastes,  aspirations,  and  sentiments  had  been  in 
singular  accord.  Until  that  fatal  mistake  had  occurred  to  change 
'heir  relationship,  Douglas  had  regarded  her  as  a  sort  of  a/tfr  ego — - 
*  sister,  but  something  rather  dearer  than  a  sister,  because  of  the 
element  of  choice  which  had  entered  into  this  fraternity,  as  it  could 
lot  have  done  into  one  of  nature's  imposing.  And  now,  as  after  four 
years  of  absence  and  silence  he  stood  again  in  her  presence,  the 
young  man  felt  that  it  would  be  easy  to  blot  out  from  his  remem- 
ffince  that  ridiculous  episode  in  their  history — that  playing  at  love 
*here  there  was  no  love — and  to  reinstate  Olivia  in  her  old  position 
sstiis  friend— his  friend  and  the  friend  of  his  wife.  For,  that  Olivia 
Mmead   was   worthy  of  their  honour,   their   truest   regard  and 


I 


I 


334  ^'^  Gentleman  s  Alagazine. 

friendship,  Douglas  felt  convinced.  An  intuitive  sense  of  the  &ct 
thrust  itself  upon  him  as  he  now  encountered  her  earnest  gaze  and 
recalled  the  knowledge  of  her  character  as  it  had  grown  upon  him 
from  childhood.  There  were  things,  it  is  true,  that  he  could  not 
understand  about  the  past — how  her  affections  could  have  developed 
in  a  line  differing  from  that  which  his  own  had  taken — how,  if  she 
had  really  loved  him  with  that  other  love,  she  could  have  given  him 
up  for  that  rich  but  vulgar  man — how,  again,  she  could  ever  have 
brought  herself,  for  one  moment,  to  contemplate  marriage  with 
the  defunct  millionaire.  All  this  was  incomprehensible.  It  was 
a  mystery,  and  Douglas  abominated  mysteries.  Yet,  somehow, 
despite  cverytliing  that  had  been  inexplicable  to  him  in  her  conduct, 
Douglas  knew  and  felt  that  Olivia  Ashmead  was  a  good  woman. 
He  had  not  thought  much  about  meeting  with  her  again — or  had 
thought  of  it  only  with  indifference  ;  but  now  that  he  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  her,  he  experienced  unquestionable  pleasure  in  the 
reunion,  and  his  expression  showed  that  this  was  the  case. 

As  for  Claudia,  the  question  of  Olivia's  being  a  "  good  "  woman 
had  not  suggested  itself  as  one  of  any  moment;  but  that  she  was  a 
tnu  woman,  a  woman  capable  of  love  and  suffering,  she  had  already 
discovered.  In  that  vivid  flash  of  emotion,  controlled  in  the  vciy 
act  of  its  manifestation,  she  had  read  her  quondam  rival's  secret 
For  that  emotion  had  been  called  forth,  she  knew,  at  first  view  of 
Douglas ;  and  though  it  was  gone  in  a  moment,  it  had  served  to 
cleave  open  poor  Olivia's  breast  and  to  lay  bare  her  jialpitating  heart— 
just  as  a  flash  of  lightning,  cleaving  the  blackness  of  night,  will  show 
to  the  spectator,  for  an  instant,  with  all  the  clearness  of  daylight,  the 
features  of  a  landscape  or  the  appointments  of  a  chamber,  even  to 
its  smallest  detail. 

Yes,  whatever  her  husband  might  say  or  think,  Claudia  knew, 
once  for  all,  that  Olivia  Ashmead  still  loved  him — that  her  love, 
however  it  had  first  come  into  existence,  whether  by  gradual  evolution 
or  at  some  instant  of  creation,  was  of  that  sort  which  **  alters  not  with 
time's  brief  hours  and  weeks,  but  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of 
doom." 

But  Claudia  felt  neither  jealous  nor  displeased.  On  the  contrary, 
a  curious  elation  took  possession  of  her  in  face  of  this  discovery. 

Is  there  in  human  nature  some  inherent  cruelty,  some  instinct 
of  savagery  inherited  from  those  semi-human  progenitors,  whom  wc 
may  all  claim,  if  we  like  (though  hardly  with  boastfulness),  as  our 
ancestors  ?  At  times  it  would  almost  seem  so.  Anyhow,  cruelty 
exists  as  an  attribute  of  man,  even  in  this  philanthropic  age;  and 


The  Unforesem.  335 

possibly  the  root  of  it,  which  lies  in  the  self-conserving  instinct,  and 
is  fostered  by  the  struggle  for  existence,  can  never  be  wholly  eradi- 
cated so  long  as  the  present  order  and  environment  of  being  con- 
tinues. But  to  find  cruelty,  or  any  shadow  of  that  ruthless  and  brutish 
quality,  in  the  bosom  of  a  fair  young  girl !  What  could  be  more 
incongruous  ? 

Nevertheless,  abhorrent  as  the  truth  may  seem,  it  still  was  the 
truth  that  a  triumphant  satisfaction  on  her  own  account  mingled  in  Mrs. 
Douglas  Awdry's  mind  with  a  subtle  pleasure  in  the  disappointment 
and  pain  of  this  other  woman.  Her  treasure  grew  all  the  more  valu- 
able through  the  notion  that  it  was  coveted.  Her  success  appeared 
the  sweeter  in  that  another  had  longed  for,  but  failed  to  attain  it 
Secure  in  the  possession  of  her  handsome  husband,  of  the  advantages 
which  his  wealth  imparted  to  her,  of  the  importance  which  her  posi- 
tion as  his  wife  communicated,  she  hugged  her  good  fortune  with  an 
access  of  secret  exultant  appreciation  in  presence  of  one  whom  she 
believed  envied  her.  And  yet  there  was  no  absolute  malevolence  i|L 
this  feeling,  any  more  than  there  is  in  the  experience,  familiar,  more  or 
less,  to  all  of  us,  when  gathered  round  our  warm  firesides  we  listen  to 
the  howling  of  the  wind  and  the  beating  of  the  rain  outside,  and  con- 
gratulate ourselves  all  the  more  fervently  on  our  own  snugness,  as  we 
picture  to  ourselves  some  unsheltered  wretch  battling,  in  cold  and 
weariness,  with  that  fierce  tempest.  Claudia's  hardness  of  heart,  so 
far  as  it  went,  was  the  result  of  self-love  and  exaggerated  egoism, 
not  of  any  natural  malice  or  inhumanity  of  temper.  She  did  not  dis- 
like this  new  acquaintance.  Far  from  it;  she  felt  impelled  by  a 
variety  of  motives,  which  she  did  not  trouble  herself  to  analyse,  to 
wish  for  her  closer  association. 

"I  hope  I  shall  see  a. great  deal  of  you,  Miss  Ashmead,"  she 
observed  before  they  separated  this  afternoon.  "  When  your  sisters 
are  married,  you  will  feel  a  little  lonely  yourself,  will  you  not  ?  And 
I  shall  be  grateful  if  fellow-feeling  leads  you  to  take  pity  on  my 
forlorn  condition  as  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.'' 

"  Thank  you.  It  will  make  me  very  happy  if  we  become  friends," 
rejoined  Olivia  quietly,  but  with  perfect  sincerity.  Poor  Olivia !  she 
had  fought  a  hard  fight  with  herself  during  the  past  week ;  but  the 
issue  of  the  battle  had  been  victory,  and  the  proof  of  the  victory  this 
early  call  upon  Douglas  Awdry's  bride. 


336  Tlu  Gentlimafis  Magazine. 


Chapter  XVII. 

WIFE   AND    FRIEND. 

It  is  often  very  difficult,  and  not  always  very  profitable^  to  try 
to  disentangle  the  varied  and  complicated  motives  which  form,  like 
wheels  within  wheels,  the  springs  of  human  desire  and  human  action. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  motives  are  simple  enough — ^just  one  or 
two  big  wheels  to  make  up  the  governing  machinery  of  conduct. 
Such  was  the  case  with  the  impulse  which  had  driven  Miss  Ashmead 
to  call  upon  Mrs.  Douglas  Awdry,  and  which  had  prompted  the 
expression  of  her  honest  desire  that  they  might  grow  to  be  friends. 

After  the  first  shock  of  agony  and  despair  on  finding  that  her 
love  had  been  forgotten  by  the  object  of  it — turned  out  into  the 
biting  cold  of  neglect — Olivia  had  gathered  the  poor  shivering  wan- 
derer back  into  her  own  bosom,  sick  and  in  pain,  but  she  had  not 
l^t  it  die.  Why,  indeed,  should  she  let  it  die,  even  if  she  could — 
that  love  which  had  sweetened  and  enriched  her  whole  life,  which, 
in  its  purity  and  unselfishness,  delighted  rather  to  give  than  to 
receive?  No,  she  need  not  cease  to  love  Douglas  Awdry  (she 
smiled  at  the  thought  of  how  impossible  such  a  feat  would  be),  but 
she  must  take  his  wife  now  as  a  part  of  himself — she  must  try  to  love 
her  too.  In  this  way  the  aching  pain  in  her  heart  might  be  stilled, 
the  sickening  void  filled.  So  she  lioped ;  and  whether  the  hope  \cd& 
to  find  realisation  or  not,  it  was  a  nobly  generous  one.  The  inspira- 
tion could  have  occurred  only  to  a  fine  nature.  And  from  Claudia 
that  inspiration  received  no  check.  The  young  wife  proved  quite  as 
willing  to  make  friends  with  her  husband's  old  fiancee  as  the  latter 
did  with  her.  There  was  no  one  in  the  whole  neighbourhood,  so 
Mrs.  Douglas  decided,  when  she  had  made  acquaintance  with  all  the 
families  whose  status  entitled  them  to  associate  with  the  Awdrys  of 
Clavermere,  whom  she  liked  so  much  as  Olivia  Ashmead;  and  Olivia, 
accordingly,  she  set  herself  very  assiduously  to  cultivate. 

There  are  some  women  to  whom  a  female  friend  is  almost  a 
necessity  of  existence,  and  Claudia  was  one  of  those  women.  The 
masculine  mind — even  that  of  her  husband — was,  to  a  certain  extent, 
incomprehensible  to  her.  Claudia  had  nothing  in  her  nature  of  the 
flirt,  and  she  had  always  been  fond  of  her  own  sex.  Not  that  that 
fondness  was  of  a  very  deep  or  discriminative  character,  or  that  it 
clung  tenaciously  to  any  special  object.  It  is  true  that,  in  her  own 
opinion,  she  had  been  very  faithful  to  Ella  Thome,  and,  without 
tion,  Ella  had  been  very  faithful  to  her.     But,  separated  as  they 


WW  were  by  so  great  a  distance,  Claudia  felt  sure  that  their  friend- 
!  ship  must  soon  die  out.  For  her  own  part,  she  haled  letter-writing  ; 
J  wd,  beside,  of  what  use  were  letters  towards  supplying  her  need  of 
J  con]]anionship  ?  Already  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  drop  the 
I  correiponcience  as  quickly  as  she  could  with  any  decency ;  and,  pro- 
•ably,  the  reflection  that,  in  loosing  her  lie  to  Ella,  she  would  cut 
herself  more  completely  adrift  from  her  past  Hfe,  stimulated  this 
rcwiiition. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  she  resolved  to  elect  Miss  Ashmead  to  the 
vacant  place  of  her  bosom  friend  ;  and  as  that  young  lady  met  her 
overtures  with  unfeigned  readiness,  the  arrangement  appeared  per- 
fccily  satisfactory.  As  often  as  her  husband  would  permit — oftener, 
»»»d(ed,  than  he  at  first  liked — Claudia  would  call  for  Olivia  to  drive 
^'  lo  ride  in  their  company,  whilst  she  was  constantly  inviting  her  to 
*  ^ic  house.  And  as  the  days  and  the  weeks  went  on,  Olivia  accepted 
those  invitations  with  more  and  more  frank  alacrity.  For  one  thing, 
*^ht  found  the  pain  of  meeting  Douglas  in  his  new  relations  of  mar- 
•^e  3  happily  diminishing  quantity,  so  far  as  she  was  personally 
Concerned  ;  for  another,  and  more  important  one,  she  believed  that 
"w  society  was  of  serious  benefit  lo  the  pair.  Very  early  indeed  in 
*he  history  of  their  acquaintance,  it  dawned  upon  Olivia  that  there 
*3s  something  missing  from  the  perfection  of  a  wife  in  the  woman 
*i>om  Douglas  had  chosen.  And  this  perception  subsequent  expe- 
*^encc  only  served  lo  confirm.  With  her  husband's  best  and  truest 
'■'e  aspirations  and  tastes  Claudia  was  totally  out  of  sympathy. 
^'Ottg  before  the  shadow  of  this  discovery  had  fallen  upon  the  young 
**an  himself,  it  was  clear,  in  all  its  blank  truth,  to  poor  Olivia's  eyes  ; 
*"<!,  eager  to  spare  him  sorrow  or  disappointment,  she  threw  herself 
•OIo  the  breach  and  tried  to  ward  off  from  him  such  discovery. 

Dropping  all  his  military  habits,  and  even  his  military  tide,  the 
"^^  Squire  had  thrown  himself  at  once  into  his  present  position  with 
**  ^^nscicntious  sense  of  its  responsibility.  A  large  landowner,  with  a 
^•Tierous  tenantry,  he  found  the  condition  of  the  latter  by  no  means 
^**tis factory.  His  brother  Julius  had  been  a  hard  man,  and  he  had 
^Own  harder  in  the  latter  years  of  his  life,  grinding  the  faces  of  the 
^'^^Or,  exacting  heavy  rents,  and  systematically  refusing  to  make 
"^«;essary  alterations  and  repairs  in  the  houses  of  his  tenants. 

Ail  this  the  new  proprietor  was  eager  lo  set  lo  rights  ;  and  when, 
"^^l  of  enthusiasm  in  his  subject,  he  would  come  with  plans  for  im- 
P*"Ovements,  rebuilding,  Sic,  to  lay  before  his  wife,  it  was  his  friend 
''Ho  interfered  with  a  demonstrative  show  of  her  own  interest  in  his 
^**ns,  to  cover  the  fact  that  his  wife  felt  none  whatever. 


338  The  Gentlemans  Magazine. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  by  degrees — without  absolutely  re- 
cognising the  truth  that  his  beautiful  Claudia  found  his  notions  of 
duty  a  bore,  but  quite  satisfied  that  Olivia  sympathised  with  them— 
it  became  a  habit  with  Douglas  to  turn  first  to  her  for  counsel  and 
encouragement  in  these  serious  occupations  of  his  life.  In  this  way 
she  grew  to  be  a  sort  of  complement  to  his  union — ^without  which  he 
might  presently  have  found  it  incomplete.  As  it  was,  a  vague  sense 
of  want  at  times  troubled — though  it  did  not  materially  disturb — ^his 
passionate  devotion  to  his  young  wife.  Yes,  she  was  young,  almost 
a  child — that  was  always  his  fond  excuse  for  her,  whenever  the 
reluctant  possibility  of  her  needing  any  excuse  was  forced  upon  him. 
Claudia  had  his  heart — his  whole  heart — and  she  knew  it  Therefore 
she  was  not  the  least  jealous  or  disquieted  to  find  that  his  ''  cousin 
Olivia  "  had  been  reinstated  by  her  husband  in  the  old  place  of  his 
friend  and  confidant  Olivia  was  quite  welcome  to  take  the  burden 
of  those  tedious  uninteresting  discussions  off  her  shoulders.  She 
^vas  welcome  to  the  husks  of  Douglas's  esteem  and  cool  fraternal 
affection,  so  long  as  she  (Claudia)  enjoyed  the  kernel  of  his  love — 
and  enjoyed  it  all  the  more  because  she  guessed  that,  now  and  then, 
poor  Olivia's  repressed  feelings  gained  the  upper  hand,  and  filled  her 
with  a  vain  longing  to  taste  the  sweetness  of  that  closer  tie  herself! 

But  Olivia  was  always  very  kind  to  her,  in  a  protective  elder- 
sisterly  sort  of  way,  which,  from  her,  Claudia  rather  liked — although 
with  other  i)eople  she  stood  ver}'  much  on  her  dignity  as  mistress 
of  Clavermere  Chase.  And  by  other  people  her  dignity  was  readily 
acknowledged.  The  young  bride — the  pretty,  delicate-looking  Mrs. 
Douglas  Awdry — excited  quite  a  furore  in  local  society,  and  was 
flattered  and  courted  to  the  top  of  her  bent.  So  passed  away  those 
early  months  of  her  married  life.  Never  had  Claudia  been  happier 
— never,  indeed,  she  told  herself,  so  happy  in  the  whole  course  of  her 
existence  !  Rich,  prosperous,  and  beloved,  conscious  of  no  unsatisfied 
need,  all  her  old  wretchedness  and  anxieties  seem  to  have  melted 
away  for  ever.  The  sword  of  1  )amocles  was  gone  from  over  her  head, 
and  she  dwelt  in  security. 

Early  in  the  summer  of  the  following  year,  there  occurred,  about 
the  same  time,  two  very  important  events  for  the  Clavermere  house- 
hold. Douglas,  after  a  rather  close  and  exciting  fight  for  it,  was 
elected  a  member  for  his  county  and  obtained  a  seat  in  Parliament — 
and  Claudia  presented  her  husband  with  a  son  and  heir.  And  now, 
if  ever,  the  faintest  shade  of  disappointment  or  disenchantment 
had  made  itself  felt  in  the  young  husband's  breast,  it  was  more  than 

ned  for.    With  a  strong  unbending  will,  and  a  capacity  for  in* 


^^ 


The  Ufi/oreseen.  339 

flexible  sternness,  Douglas  Awdry  had  also  a  tender,  idealistic  side  to 
his  nature,  and  this  was  deeply  touched  by  his  wife's  weakness  and 
motherhood.  In  the  new  glory  of  her  maternity  (how  little  he  sus- 
pected that  maternity  was  not  new  to  her  !),  he  appeared  positively 
to  worship  the  ground  upon  which  she  trod,  to  use  the  common  but 
expressive  phrase. 

It  was  rather  a  hard  time,  that,  for  the  devoted,  unselfish  friend 
upon  whose  companionship,  during  the  period  of  confinement  to 
the  house,  Claudia  made  such  demands.     Olivia,  however,  having  no 
excuse  to  the  contrary,  answered  all  those  demands.    Her  sisters, 
Rose  and  Edith,  had  been  married,  each  of  them  at  the  appointed 
dates,  and  the  former  was  expecting  very  shortly  to  follow  Claudia's 
example  by  becoming  a  mother.    As  the  distance  was  not  very  great, 
Olivia  had  paid  several  short  visits  to  her  sister's  new  home  ;  while 
Mrs.  Ashmead,  who  found  the  Vicarage  very  comfortable,  spent  a  good 
deal  of  her  time  there.    One  of  Olivia's  visits  to  Longenvale  had 
taken  place  just  before  the  birth  of  Claudia's  boy,  and  on  her  return 
she  tried  to  amuse  the  young  mother  by  describing  the  people  whom 
she  had  met  there,  and  repeating  the  little  gossiping  stories  which 
are  sure  to  abound  in  a  country  neighbourhood.    Amongst  other 
people,  she  mentioned  that  she  had,  on  one  occasion,  encountered 
Lord  Westaxon — the  earl  about  whom,  as  a  future  parishioner.  Rose 
liad  spoken  so  boastfully.     Walking  with  her  brother-in-law  at  the 
time,  Olivia  had  met  the  earl  in  an  invalid  carriage — a  sort  of  bath- 
chair — propelled  by  a  footman.     Lord  Westaxon  had  stopped  to 
say  a  few  words  to  the  clergyman,  and  the  latter,  of  course,  intro- 
duced his  sister-in-law.     Only,  in  reality,  thirty-two  years  of  age,  the 
earl,  Miss  Ashmead  declared,  looked  more  like  fifty.    He  had  a  thin, 
withered,  pain-drawn  face,  and  a  cynical  ill-natured  expression.  That 
expression  did  not,  it  was  said,  belie  his  disposition ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  as  Olivia  explained,  there  were  excuses  to  be  made  for  the  poor 
fellow's  bitter  temper.     For  six  years,  now,  he  had  been  a  cripple  ; 
and  a  cripple,  it  was  decreed,  he  must  remain  to  the  end  of  his  days. 
Moreover,  this  calamity  had  befallen  him  in  a  very  dreadful  way.    At 
the  time  of  its  occurrence  both  parents  had  been  alive,  and  he  had 
borne,  by  courtesy,  his  father's  second  title.  Viscount  Longenvale. 
Then,  also,  there  had  been  two  younger  sons,  known  by  the  family 
name  of  Stenhouse  ;  and  towards  the  elder  of  these — the  brother 
next  to  him — a  bright,  amiable  young  fellow,  whom  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  admired — ^Viscount  Longenvale  had  always  appeared  to  nourish 
an  unaccountable  antipathy. 

The  two  had  been  always  at  loggerheads— perpetually  quarrelling 
—though  the  fault  seemed  to  have  rested  mamVj/vi  nc^X  ^xi^cafSoj  >^w\5^ 


340  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

the  elder  brother.  But,  on  whichever  side  the  blame  lay,  a  terrible 
retribution  had  fallen  upon  both  young  men.  Late  one  night — ^a 
night  in  midsummer — Viscount  Longenvale  had  been  heard  speaking 
in  an  unusually  loud  and  angry  key  in  the  bedchamber  of  his  brother. 
The  servants,  however,  who  had  overheard  the  disturbance,  had  been 
too  much  accustomed  to  similar  sounds  to  take  much  notice  of  this. 

"  There's  them  two  at  it  again — like  hammer  and  tongs — least- 
ways, the  viscount's  at  it  ! "  one  gentleman  with  very  fine  calves  had 
observed  to  another  equally  favoured  by  nature,  as  they  caught  the 
echo  of  a  passionate  roll  of  abuse,  in  passing  the  end  of  the  corridor, 
on  their  way  to  their  own  nightly  quarters. 

But  neither  they,  nor  others  of  the  household,  had  experienced 
more  than  a  momentary  sense  of  alarm,  even  when  a  louder  cry  of 
wrath  or  excitement  had  been  instantaneously  followed  by  a  dead 
silence  between  the  combatants. 

But  with  the  morning  had  come  a  terrible  explanation  of  that 
sudden  silence.  Viscount  Longenvale  had  been  found  lying  on  a 
stone  parapet  twenty  feet  below  the  open  window  of  his  brother's 
room,  unconscious  and  half  dead.  As  for  the  Honourable  Herbert 
.  .  .  was  that  the  name  ?  Yes,  Olivia  thought  it  was  .  .  .  the  Hon. 
Herbert  Stenhouse — he  had  disapi)eared  from  his  home,  and  never, 
from  that  day  to  this,  had  anything  whatever  been  heard  of  him. 
What  the  occasion  of  that  fateful  quarrel  had  been,  the  viscount  had 
never  been  known  to  disclose,  but  his  fall  from  the  window,  he  had 
declared,  so  soon  as  he  was  able  to  speak,  had  not  been  accidental 
It  was  his  brother  who  had  pushed  him  through  it,  and  whose  flight 
had  probably  been  occasioned  by  the  belief  that  he  had  killed  him. 
And,  for  a  long  time,  it  had  been  doubtful  whether  the  injuries  he 
had  received  might  not  indeed  result  in  the  imfortunate  viscount's 
death.  Ultimately,  however,  he  had  recovered — if  it  could  be  called 
recovery — when  the  use  of  both  legs  was  entirely  gone,  and  the  spine 
remained  seriously  affected. 

"  Then  the  poor  mother  " — Olivia  continued,  telling  this  tale  to 
Claudia,  who  listened  with  a  languid,  lady-like  interest — "  the  poor 
countess,  already  delicate,  had  faded  away  from  the  hour  when  the 
shock  of  that  double  disaster  had  come  upon  her;  and  the  year  after 
her  death,  Lord  Westaxon  had  followed  her  to  the  grave,  when  the 
earldom,  of  course,  had  devolved  upon  the  crippled  elder  son." 

"And  how  about  the  third  son?"  Claudia  inquired;  "does  he 
not  live  with  his  brother?  " 

"  No,  Lord  Westaxon  lives  alone — a  >\Tetched,  misanthropic  life. 
It  is  Rose  who  has  gathered  all  this  information  about  the 
r^^ijif  you  understand.    No  one  dates  s^^t^k  lo  the  earl  himself 


The  Unforeseen.  341 

either  about  his  own  physical  injuries  or  his  lost  brother;  and, 
naturally,  after  six  years,  the  story  is  dying  out  in  the  district- 
especially  as  the  unfortunate  man  keeps  himself  so  entirely  aloof  from 
society  that  people  are  apt  to  forget  his  existence.  Scarcely  a  soul 
ever  enters  the  gates  of  Westaxon  Park  but  the  doctor  and  my 
brother-in-law.  "  Rose  has  never  been  there  ;  but  the  earl  seems  to 
have  taken  rather  a  fancy  to  the  new  vicar." 

"Oh?  Well,  I  don't  wonder,"  returned  Claudia,  with  amiable 
politeness.  **  I  thought  Mr.  Featherstone  a  charming  man  when  I 
met  him  at  your  sister's  wedding." 

"  Yes,  Rose  has  been  very  fortunate  in  her  husband,"  resumed 
Miss  Ashmead.  "  But  you  were  asking  about  the  third  brother — 
the  Honourable  George  Stenhouse,  his  name  is.  He  is  married,  and 
he  lives  in  one  of  the  northern  counties — Lancashire,  I  believe.  His 
wife  was  the  daughter  of  a  commoner — a  man  who  had  made  an 
enormous  fortune  in  trade,  and  who  was  knighted  for  entertaining 
royalty  on  the  occasion  of  some  passing  visit  to  his  native  town.  The 
daughter,  being  his  only  child,  was,  of  course,  a  great  heiress  j  and  as 
money,  in  these  days,  is  held  to  be  of  as  much  value  as  blood,  I 
suppose  the  Hon.  G.  Stenhouse  made  a  good  match.  At  any  rate, 
as  the  knight  is  dead,  the  property  has  now  come  to  them,  and  they 
are  immensely  wealthy.  Rose  has  been  told  that  Mrs.  Stenhouse  is 
a  year  or  two  older  than  her  husband,  who  was  exactly  twenty-one  at 
the  time  of  his  marriage,  and  that  there  are  two  children*— a  boy  and 
girL  And,  you  see,  unless  the  missing  brother  turns  up,  the  Hon. 
George  or  his  son  must  be  the  next  earl." 

**  Yes,  of  course.  I  wonder  if  he  ever  will  turn  up  !  \Vhat  do 
you  think  can  have  become  of  him  ?  Why  has  he  not  been  found  ? 
Surely  some  steps  must  have  been  taken  to  discover  his  whereabouts?" 
questioned  Mrs.  Douglas  Awdry,  with  her  mild  interest  in  the  story. 
Ah  !  if  one  of  those  mythical  "  little  birds "  that  one  hears  of,  as 
going  about  charged  with  one's  own  and  one's  neighbours'  most 
occult  secrets,  had  but  been  present  to  whisper  a  few  Sibylline 
words  in  Mrs.  Douglas's  ear,  it  is  possible  that  her  interest  in 
the  Stenhouse  family  might  have  been  slightly  quickened  ! 

As  it  was,  when  Miss  Ashmead  had  replied  that  the  general  im- 
pression around  Westaxton  Park  seemed  to  be  that  the  lost  young 
man  must  be  dead,  and  that  possibly  he  might  have  met  his  death  by 
suicide,  Claudia  considered  the  subject  exhausted,  and  proceeded  to 
introduce  another  which  she  was  never  weary  of  discussing— to  wit, 
the  perfections  of  her  baby,  whose  name,  it  had  been  decided,  was  to 
be  Eustace. 

{JTo  be  continutd^^ 


DOWN  THE  RED  SEA 


OF  alt  ondesiabte  cotners  of  the  eatlh,  none  Las  left  on  my  mind 
a  more  dreaiy  impression  dtan  Suez— a  dismal  settlement  in 
the  sand,  in  which,  often  as  it  has  been  my  fate  to  visit  it,  I  have 
failed  to  find  a  redeeming  feature.  Even  its  ruinous  streets  and 
bazaars  lack  the  picturesqueness  which  generally  attaches  to  all 
OtienEal  life,  white  the  dirt  and  poverty  of  the  hungfy-looking  people 
are  too  painfully  prominent. 

Close  by  the  sea  stands  the  one  refuge  for  Europeans— a  large 
.  hotel  which  rejoices  in  the  monopoly  of  the  victims  who  are  here 
detained  while  waiting  for  their  steamer,  which  may  perhaps  have 
stuck  somewhere  in  the  great  canal — Old  Egypt's  new  river — at  whose 
mouih  are  stationed  huge  diedgbg-machines,  which  travel  to  and 
fro  ceaselessly  clearing  the  channel,  and  which,  seen  from  the  shore, 
are  suggestive  of  black  sea-monsters. 

Just  outside  the  haibour  lies  a  low  sandy  island,  which  is  used  as 
a  burying- ground,  where  many  a  homeward-bound  wanderer  has 
found  a  shallow  grave  beneath  the  scorching  sand ;  many  and  many 
a  nameless  grave  is  there  of  those  who,  after  long  years  of  exile  in 
India  or  China,  started  for  "  England  and  home,"  buE  whose  broken 
health  vainly  strove  to  battle  with  the  perils  of  the  Red  Sea,  so  that 
life's  flickering  lamp  burnt  itself  out  as  they  touched  the  land. 
Happier  they  whose  shorter  struggle  wins  them  a  glorious  tomb 
beneath  the  deep  blue  waves,  rather  than  six  feet  of  burning  sand  on 
Ihisdreary  island  of  thedead  !  Not  such  an  one  as  those  peaceful 
green  isles  of  the  northern  seas,  where  mosses  and  wild  flowers  cling 
round  the  old  grey  stones,  making  death  itself  beautiful,  but  a  fiery 
spot  where  land  and  sea  and  sky  all  alike  gl.tre  in  a  fierce  red  heat, 
the  very  abomination  of  desolation. 

Red,  rocky,  sterile  cliffs  rise  almost  perpendicularly  from  the  sea, 
and  as  they  seem  to  glow  like  crimson  fire  in  the  SGorcliing  sunlight 
their  colour  is  generally  said  to  give  its  nauie  to  this  sea,  an  explana- 
tion, however,  which  is  unsatisfactory  to  say  the  least  of  it  And  yet 
the  origin  of  the  name  must  perple:;  every  new-comer,  who,  passing 
from  the  exquisitely  clear  green  waters  of  the  Suez  Canal  (the  aqua- 


Down  the  Red  Sea.  343 

marine  of  shallow  sea-water  above  a  bed  of  white  sand),  finds  himself 
floating  on  the  beautiful  deep  blue  of  the  gulf. 

While  pondering  over  this  question  I  heard  with  exceeding 
interest  the  solution  offered  by  two  naval  officers,  who  separately  told 
me  that  in  some  of  the  broiling  summer  days,  when  not  a  breath  stirred 
the  sultry  air  or  rippled  the  oily  surface  of  the  water,  they  had  noticed 
a  reddish  scum  gathered  in  places,  and  had  little. doubt  that  to  some 
such  simple  cause  the  name  was  due.  Various  other  sailors  less 
observant  than  these  laughed  at  the  notion  and  vowed  that  in  all 
their  longer  experience  such  a  thing  had  never  been  seen.  It  was 
the  old  story — "  eyes  "  and  "  no  eyes." 

It  was  therefore  with  infinite  pleasure  that  I  stumbled  on  a  passage 
in  the  writings  of  Moquin  Tandon,  in  which  he  states  that  the  Red 
Sea  was  so  called  from  the  prevalence  of  a  minute  bright  red  plant, 
so  small  that  in  one  square  inch  twenty-five  million  plants  find  room 
to  live.  He  quotes  a  passage  from  Ehrenberg  who  tells  us  how  he 
saw  from  Tor,  near  Mount  Sinai,  the  whole  bay  of  which  tliat  village 
is  the  port,  red  as  blood,  the  open  sea  keeping  its  ordinary  colour. 
The  wavelets  carried  to  the  shore  during  the  heat  of  the  day  a  purple 
mucilaginous  matter,  and  left  it  upon  the  sand,  so  that  in  about  half 
an  hour  the  whole  bay  was  surrounded  by  a  red  fringe,  which,  on 
examination,  proved  to  consist  of  myriads  of  tiny  bundles  of  fibres, 
about  one-twelfth  of  an  inch  long,  namely  the  red  trichodesmium  ; 
the  water  in  which  they  floated  was  quite  pure. 

Another  French  traveller  mentions  that,  as  he  sailed  down  the 
Red  Sea,  he  suddenly  observed  that  the  water,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  appeared  to  be  of  a  deep  red  colour.  It  was  some 
hours  before  the  ship  in  which  he  sailed  passed  through  this  strange 
expanse  of  blood-red  ocean,  which  at  length  seemed  to  grow  paler, 
and  shortly  he  found  himself  once  more  looking  down  through  clear 
depths  of  the  usual  intense  blue. 

Many  other  instances  are  recorded  in  which  the  presence  of  this 
tiny  plant  has  seemed  to  turn  the  water  into  blood.  In  one  case, 
near  the  island  of  Lu^on,  a  French  corvette  came  on  an  extent  of 
thirty-five  square  miles  of  it,  extending  also  to  a  great  depth. 

Monsieur  Evenot  Dupont  tells  us  how  in  the  Mauritius  on  one 
hot  summer's  day  the  sea,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  was  tinted 
with  red,  its  surface  seemingly  covered  with  a  material  of  a  brick -dust 
colour.  This  on  investigation  proved  to  be  the  same  plant  j  when 
dried  on  linen,  it  became  green. 

Another  traveller  tells  how  on  the  coast  of  Chili  he  espied  a  dark 
red  streak  upon  the  sea ;  when  the  vessel  reached  this,  the  water  was 


344  ^^^  Gentkmaris  Magazine. 

found  to  be  full  of  minute  red  particles,  but  whether  animal  or 
vegetable  he  failed  to  detect.  It  was  four  hours  before  the  ship  gpt 
away  from  this  strange  field,  which,  it  was  calculated^  covered  a 
surface  of  i68  square  miles. 

Dan\in  mentions  having,  on  the  same  coast,  witnessed  a  veiy 
similar  phenomenon.  He  says  that  the  vessel  passed  through  broad 
bands  of  reddish  water,  which  proved  to  be  coloured  by  minute 
active  animalcules,  darting  al>out,  and  of  infinite  number,  none  of 
them  exceeding  the  one- thousandth  part  of  an  inch  in  length,  and  every 
drop  of  water  containing  many  specimens.  One  of  these  bands  of 
colour  covered  a  space  of  several  square  miles. 

The  colour  of  the  water,  as  seen  at  some  distance,  was  like  that  of 
a  river  which  has  flowed  through  a  red  clay  district ;  but  under  the 
shade  of  the  vessel's  side  it  looked  as  dark  as  chocolate.  The  line 
where  the  red  and  blue  water  joined  was  distinctly  defmed.  From 
this  marvellous  mass  of  millions  upon  millions  of  minute  animalcules 
a  few  specimens  were  examined  under  the  microscope,  a  matter  of  no 
small  difficulty,  owing  to  the  amazing  activity  of  their  movements— 
an  incessant  motion,  which  seemed  a  necessary  part  of  their  existence, 
inasmuch  as  the  moment  it  ceased  they  instantly  expanded  and 
burst— in  so  doing  ejecting  brown  colouring  matter. 

In  several  places,  in  the  course  of  one  long  voyage  Mr.  Darwin 
again  observed  kindred  phenomena,  in  one  case  caused  by  myriads 
of  Crustacea,  in  form  like  prawns,  which  dung  together  in  bands  of 
a  bright  red  colour.  Again  he  noticed  lines  of  red  and  yellow, 
several  miles  in  length,  but  only  a  few  yards  in  width,  caused 
by  gelatinous  balls,  apparently  the  spawn  of  some  fish. 

He  quotes  about  twenty  different  travellers  who  have  all 
described  this  same  discoloration  of  the  sea;  in  fact  observes  that  in 
almost  every  long  voyage  some  such  description  is  given.  Speaking  of 
this  reddish-brown  weed,  from  which  the  Red  Sea  probably  derives 
its  name,  he  compared  it  to  chopped  hay,  and  observes  that  in  Captain 
Cook's  voyages  the  sailors  bestowed  on  it  the  name  of  sea  sawdust 

Lieutenant  Ogilvie  Grant  tells  me  that  when  off  the  West  Coast 
of  Africa,  about  a  day's  steam  north  of  the  mouth  of  the  Sierra  I^one 
river,  he  passed  through  a  broad  belt  of  deep  crimson  water,  and 
though  the  vessel  was  steaming  rapidly,  it  took  upwards  of  an  hour 
to  pass  this  strange  band  of  colour.  The  surface  water  brought  up 
in  buckets  was  quite  clear,  and  afforded  no  clue  to  the  cause  of  the 
rosy  hue. 

Sir  Emerson  Tennent  observed  the  same  colouring  as  of  frequent 
occurrence  on  the  shores  of  Ceylon  during  the  south-west  monsoon* 


Down  the  Rtd  St  a.  345  ( 

noticed  a  broad  expanse  of  the  sea  of  a  deep  red  tinge, 
iiderably  brighter  than  brick-dust,  and  confined  to  a  space  so 
B&Kl  that  a  line  seemed  to  separate  it  from  llie  green  water,  which 
fed  on  either  side.  On  examining  this  microscopically,  he  found 
)  be  filled  with  infusoria,  similar  to  those  which  tinge  the  sea  off 
iriiores  of  South  America— such  as  those  described  by  M,  Lesson 
Ae  coast  of  Lima. 

Kotzebue  observed  the  same  rich  red  hue  off  the  coast  of  Brazil, 

ire  it  seemed  due  to  the  presence  of  myriads  of  minute  crabs  and 

■eeds ;  and  so  vivid  in  colour  and  so  wjiie  in  expanse  are  these 

pu  fields  iQ  the  neigh bo-.irbood  of  California,  that  they  have  earni-d 

name  of  the  Vermilion  Sea.      Nor  are  these  vast   crops   and 

fes  of  insignificant  units  peculiar  to  the  tropics.     We  knuw  that 

be  arctic  regions,  ihe  whalers  are  guided  in  the  pursuit  of  their 

ihtic  spoil  by  noting  places  where,  for  leagues  together,  ihe  water 

discoloured   by  myriads  of  microscopic  plants,  which  are  the 

fivoarite  food  of  many  species  of  jelly-fish  (or,  to  give  them  what  the 

(Jiildren  call  their  Sunday  name,  medusae),     These  are,  in  their 

Hm,  the  delicate  prey  which  attracts  ihe  great  whale. 

t  Mr.  Gosse  tells  us  that  in  the  salt  works  at  Lymington,  in  Hamp- 

fce,  England,  the  reservoirs  of  concentrated  brine  are  peopled  by 

^dculable  myriads  of  microscopic  animalcules  of  a  crimson  hue. 

Abo  his  own  tanks  of  sea- water  on  one  occasion  became  full  of 

pilches  of  a  rich  crimson  purple  colour,  which  spread  rapidly  over  the 

Sufuce  of  the  water  and  the  sides  of  the  vessel.     This  proved  to  be 

roscopic  sea-weed,  which  continued  to  flourish  for  some  months, 

IE  tank  was  unfortunately  destroyed. 

'H,  de  Candolle  mentions  a  similar  phenomenon  on  the  Lake  of 

feral,  near  Neufchatel,  when,  hearing  from  the  peasants  the  report 

""U  the  waters  had  suddenly  become  the  colour  of  blood,  he  insti- 

'uied  a  minute  examination  of  the  cause.     He  found  that  in  the 

■"omiDg  hours  llie  lake  presented  its  usual  appearance,  but  later  in 

'he  day  long  Uoes  of  reddish  matter  appeared  on  the  surface,  which, 

•^fling  in    every   direction,   tinted  the  waters  with  all    shades   of 

>'elW,  brown,  and  vivid  red,  and  exhaled  a  pestiferous  odour,  but 

'"'i'cly  disappeared  at  night. 

He  found  that  in  stormy  weather  it  never  appeared  at  all ;  but 
"^in  November  till  the  following  May  it  came  and  vanished  con- 
'*Otly,  De  Candolle  believes  this  to  have  been  caused  by  a  mighty 
•"iDy  of  animalcules,  but  English  naturalists  attributed  it  to  a  freak 
^flie  vegetable  world. 

curious  that  there  should  be  room  for  so  much  discus, 
iTTOL.  ecLViri.     NO.  1853.  B  B 


I 


L 


346  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

sion  as  to  the  origin  of  the  name  of  the  Red  Sea,  as  the  Hebrew 
word  so  translated,  SQph,  which  occurs  upwards  of  twenty  times  in 
the  Old  Testament,  simply  means  weeds — the  sea  of  weeds.  The 
same  word  occurs  in  the  Book  of  Jonah,  where  he  cries  that  in  the 
depth  of  the  sea  the  weeds  were  wrapped  around  his  head. 

In  allusion  to  this,  Fiirst  says  :  "  There  is  a  certain  weed  which 
grows  in  the  depths  of  the  Red  Sea,  and  is  called  by  the  Ethiopians 
Supho,  It  is  crimson,  and  contains  a  red  dye,  which  serves  for 
dyeing  cloth,  according  to  the  testimony  of  Hieronymus  on  the 
qualities  of  the  Red  Sea." 

Strabo,  Diodorus,  and  other  ancient  writers  are  quoted  as  alluding 
to  the  weed  of  the  Arabian  Gulf,  "  a  sea-weed  resembling  wool" 
The  Arabians  too  allude  to  it  in  their  poetic  proverb  to  describe 
those  who  are  parted  for  ever  :  "  I  will  return  to  thee  when  the  sea 
has  ceased  to  wet  the  soof  ' — that  is,  never. 

Although  we  had  not  the  good  fortune  to  witness  a  phenomenon 
so  specially  characteristic  of  this  sea,  we  were  highly  favoured  in  the 
brilliant  displays  of  phosphorescence  which  night  after  night  illumi- 
nated the  dark  world  of  waters,  seeming  to  scintillate  like  the 
white  lambent  flame  of  the  aurora.  From  my  childhood  I  have  been 
familiar  with  the  wonderful  phosphoric  light  when  sailing  through 
herring  shoals  in  our  dark  northern  seas .  But  in  those  warmer  lati* 
tudes  there  were  some  nights  when  the  whole  ocean  seemed  lighted 
with  quivering  tongues  of  white  flame.  The  surface,  dark  one 
moment,  would  on  the  next  suddenly  burst  into  a  glowing  sheet  of 
liquid  fire,  curling  in  flakes  of  living  foam  ;  each  leaping  fish  scattered 
the  light  as  it  flung  the  starry  spray  around  ;  each  tiny  wavelet  broke 
in  fiery  ripples  ;  and  in  our  wake  lay  a  gleaming  track  sparkling  with 
glittering  sea-stars. 

Sometimes  we  made  our  way  to  the  bows  (it  would  sound  more 
in  keeping  to  speak  poetically  of  the  prow!),  thence  to  watch  the 
good  ship  cleave  the  waves,  sending  the  sea  lightning  shooting  along 
each  ripple — and  we  thought  how  eerie  must  the  same  sight  have 
seemed  to  the  ancient  mariner,  as  he  watched  how  from  his  ghastly 
ship 

The  elfish  light  fell  ufi  in  hoary  Hakes. 

The  officers  on  board  described  a  marvellous  display  of  a  very 
uausual  form  of  phosphoric  light  which  they  had  had  the  good  fortune 
to  witness  on  their  previous  voyage  through  the  Red  Sea,  when  for 
three  days  and  three  nights  the  whole  surface  of  the  water  seemed 
tinged  with  a  milky  substance  which,  at  night,  gleamed  with  Iig^t 
s^jU^dd  that   it  seemed  as  if  a  brilliant  reflection  of  moonlight 


Dozi'ti  the  Red  Sm, 


347       I 


Uy  on  everj-  side  of  them,  though  the  night  was  as  dark  as  it  well 
could  be.  They  say  that  it  positively  made  their  eyes  ache  to  keep 
«[ch  In  such  a  glare. 

Is  it  not  strange  lo  think  that  all  this  mysterious  illumination 
sliould  be  due  to  myriads  of  luminous  animalcules  ?  Chiefly  to  one, 
•ihich,  when  vastly  magnified,  has  the  form  of  a  tiny  melon.  They 
»fe  of  all  colours — blue,  white,  and  green — and  it  has  been  calculated 
lluiGfiy  thousand  would  lind  abundant  space  in  a  small  wineglassful 
of  water ! 

Of  all  delightful  companions  on  a  sea  voyage,  commend  me  to 

one  possessed  of  a  good  microscope,  and  who,  day  by  day,  can  con- 

JUfe  up  new  marvels  from  the  exhauslless  stores  of  invisible  treasures 

of  ihedcep.     With  such  an  one  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  travel,  and 

"^•y  pleasant  were  the  liliputian  fisheries,  when  one  small  bucket  did 

l''e  work  of  nets,  and  cruives,  and  rods — in  short,  brought  us  more 

■tnngc  and  wonderful  creatures  than  ever  net  enclosed  ;  and  very 

'•dutiful  too  were  the  artistic  delineations  of  these  dainty  creatures 

"■nich  their  captors  carried  away  with  them  for  the  pleasure  of  lands- 

•"^  ;  although  the  tiny  prisoners  resented  having  to  sit  for  their 

portraits,  and  wriggled  about  till  they  occasionally  attained  to  a 

^"^'ana  of  their  own,  and  evaporated  altogether  t 

Among  the  larger  denizens  of  the  deep,  whose  frequent  appearance, 

•"d  Occasional  most  unintentional  visits,  served  to  beguile  many  an 

tour  of  pleasant  idleness,  were  the  flying-fish.   Sometimes  we  flashed 

Inrougji  shoais,  which  rose  from  the  waves  at  our  approach  like 

^l»es  of  silvery  spray.     They  flew,  perhaps,  two    hundred  yards, 

"Ot»iing   the   surface  of  tlie   water,  then  again  just  touching    the 

*'^S  to  moislen  their  transparent  wings.    Sometimes,  in  their  terror, 

^^f    flew  right  in  at  the  cabin  windows,  looking  so  like  tiny  birds  that 

^X    »Tiight  well  earn  the  name  of  "sea-swallows,"  bestowed  on  ihem  in 

nci^^j  jgyj^     jj  really  seemed  barbarous  to  capture  those  graceful 

^^^  <-jntary  guests,  but  such  dainty  morsels  proved  irresistible.     So 

^  t*'*-escrved  the  curious  wings  of  gauze-like  membrane  on  a  folding 

;-work— in  short,  eK.iggerated  pectoral  fins  (surely  they  must 

inspired  the  Chinaman  with  the  original  design  for  his  folding 

**"   ^^f  matting  or  bamboo  1),  but  the  delicate  little  fish  were  consigned 

"  **  «  cook's  galley,  and  were  voted  to  be  the  daintiest  lish-morsels 

*^  *^ad  ever  tasted. 

,    -111  the  West  Indian  Isles,  where  their  excellence  is  fully  appre- 

™^^*1,  and  the  supply  inexhaustible,  the  favourite  method  of  catching 

**i  is  to  rig  out  wide  nets  on  poles  on  all  sides  of  their  boat ;  then 

'^^  fishers  kindle  a  blazing  fire  in  their  ironbraiier,  knowingwell 


hai 


Iho^^ 


34 S  Thi  Gentleman  s  Alagazvu. 

quickly  these  silvery  **  sea-moths  '*  will  fly  to  the  alluring  light,  only 
to  nnd  themselves  helpless  captives  in  some  of  the  many  nets. 
Almost  exactly  the  same  method  of  capture  is  practised  in  some  of 
the  South  Sea  Isles,  where  the  natives  go  out  at  night  in  their  canoes, 
carrying  blazing  torches  and  small  nets  on  bamboos. 

It  appears  that  there  are  so  many  different  kinds  of  flying-fish  that 
I  might  very  well  have  commenced  acquaintance  with  the  family  in  the 
Mediterranean  ;  but  z.s  that  jileasure  was  deferred  till  we  met  in  the 
Red  Sea,  I  naturally  connect  them  with  the  many  novelties  whidi 
j:;ave  such  additional  interest  to  our  voyage  south  of  Suez. 

To  be^n  with  the  early  morning,  we  were  offered  the  accustomed 
tea  and  cottee,  under  the  name  of  *'  chota  hazeri " — i,e,  small  break- 
fast. Next,  we  noticed  that  our  luncheon  was  transformed  into 
"  tinen,"  and  that  as  we  sat  in  the  cabin  silent  Hindoo  lads  squatted 
on  the  floor,  pulling  punkahs  to  keep  us  cool,  and  at  the  same  time 
blowing  away  all  our  (upcrs,  till  some  kind  sailor  friends  supplied  us 
with  leaden  weights.  Evidently  we  were  on  the  highway  to  some 
strangely  new  state  of  existence. 

The  ship's  company,  too,  seemed  to  comprise  samples  of  all  the 
Oriental  races  :  Chinese  quartermasters,  Malays,  Lascars,  splendid 
Nubian  stokers,  British  officers.  There  were  Hindoos,  Mohamme- 
dans, Confucians,  Buddhists,  and  Christians. 

The  captain's  servant,  who  waited  upon  us,  was  a  Kitmutgar  of 
the  true  stamp— turbaned,  white-robed,  barefooted,  a  Mohammedan 
of  course,  else,  how  could  he  supply  us  with  genuine  roast  beef?  The 
fruits,  too,  at  dessert  were  new — bunches  of  plantains,  like  creamy 
confectionery  ;  guavas,  like  indifferent  pears,  but  hateful  to  smell ; 
pummeloes,  like  huge  oranges  with  pink  flesh ;  and  scarlet  pome- 
granates, duly  prepared  with  wine  and  sprinkled  with  spices. 

The  very  rocks  were  altogether  strange  to  us.  Wonderful  volcanic 
masses  like  giant  heaps  of  tinder  and  slag  round  some  antediluvian 
smelting  furnace,  masses  of  red  and  green  and  black  lava  cutting 
sharp  against  pale  yellow  earth,  make  these  freaks  of  nature  as  strange 
in  colour  as  in  form.  One  group  bears  the  name  of  the  twelve 
apostles.  Then  comes  Bab-el-Mandeb — the  Gate  of  Death — of  Hell- 
er of  Tears,  as  I  heard  it  variously  rendered.  It  was  suggestive  of  all 
three  as  we  first  beheld  it,  standing  out  in  purple  relief  against  a 
glimpse  of  fiery  sunrise,  while  clouds  and  sea  were  alike  sombre  and 
solemn.  It  received  its  very  suggestive  name  from  the  Arabs  of  old 
on  account  of  the  dangers  of  its  navigation.  So  numerous  were  the 
shipwrecks  between  these  cruel  gates  that  when  any  man  started  on 
jtius  voyage  he  was  held  to  have  indeed  entered  the  jaws  of  death. 


Down  the  Red  Sec 


349 


*n«i  his  iamily  wailed  and  put  on  mourning  for  him  as  though  he 
were  already  dead. 

Just  opposite  this  headland  ties  the  small  island  of  Perim, 
cotnnianding  the  entrance  to  the  straits.  On  it  stands  a  lighthouse 
a-ntl  a  small  fort,  both  of  very  recent  date.  The  story  told  concerning 
the  annexation  of  this  island  is  curious.  From  ihe  beginning  of  time 
nobody  had  coveted  so  arid  a  rock,  till  one  day  it  occurred  lo  France 
that  it  might  prove  a  useful  position.  .So  in  January  1857  the 
French  brig  of  war,  Aisus,  eighteen  guns,  was  despatched  to  take 
possession,  and  very  naturally  she  halted  at  Aden,  where  her  officers 
^«'ere  invited  to  mess,  in  the  course  of  which,  wine  being  in  and  wit  out, 
^*»  far  as  to  loosen  tongues,  they  divulged  their  mission.  No  comment 
**'as  made,  but  Brigadier  Coghlan  (afterwards  Sir  William  Coghlan), 
the  commandant,  silently  wrote  a  few  words  on  a  slip  of  paper, 
''^'hich  was  at  once  despatched  to  Lieutenant  Templer,  commanding 
the  Indian  navy  schooner  AJa/ii,  five  guns.  Not  a  moment  was  lost, 
*"<!  the  Ma/ii  immediately  sped  on  her  way  to  Perim,  and  there 
**oisted  the  British  flag -to  the  no  small  amazement  and  disgust  of 
*"C  loquacious  envoys,  on  iheir  arrival  thither  the  following  day. 

"VTe  sailed  past  some  extraordinary  serrated  crags,  bearing  the 
***me  of  Jebel  Hussan,  with  sharp  teeth  and  pinnacles  of  every 
*^<^iour,  bristling  up  from  the  general  mass  of  slag  and  cinder-dust 
*0<1  ashes.  And  before  us  lay  the  mightiest  rock  of  all,  Aden — ceded 
***  England  by  the  Sultan  after  the  inhabitants  had  maltreated  the 
Passengers  of  an  F.nglish  ship,  which  was  wrecked  on  this  inhospitable 
^hore.  Marco  Polo  and  other  travellers  of  old  have  told  us 
^les  of  its  greatness  in  bygone  times — its  riches  and  splendour  as  a 
place  of  traffic  for  all  nations.  Of  all  this  glory  the  so\^  remaining 
'^^c:*  is  that  wonderful  group  of  tanks  ;  whether  they  are  the  work  of 
"*^  Homans  or  of  the  old  Moors  is  unknown,  but  for  centuries  they  lay 
"Wried  beneath  rock  and  sand,  their  very  existence  forgotten.  It  is  only 
•o^We  twenty  or  thirty  years  since  they  were  excavated,  to  be  the 
*oo(]„  Qf  all  beholders.  The  old  civilisation  having  thus  vanished, 
*'  »a  ffijij  unfeigned  delight  that  we  hail  our  first  and  only  real  glimpse 
^*  Soiuine  savages  ;  quite  the  unmistakable  article  1 

1'he  rock  in  the  distance,  especially  as  seen  from  the  Indian  side, 
^^'S  a  strange  resemblance  to  Gibraltar.  There  is  the  same  great 
r****  rising  abruptly  from  the  sea,  the  same  low  neck  of  sand  conncrt- 
-.6  U  with  the  distant  blue  and  lilac  hills.  Hut  as  you  draw  near  the 
,  ^Jiess  ceases,  and  only  the  impression  of  terrible  sterility  forces 
^*'f  on  you.  On  every  side  of  you  are  masses  of  lava  ;  above  you 
*  Same  lava,  towers  in  dark,  dreary,  desolate  ridges.     A  black  and 


I 


The  GeulUntan's  Magazine. 

led  sea  of  petrified  lava  lies  before  you,  so  hot  that  il  well  vA 
blisteis  the  hand  that  touches  it :  for  on  rock  and  sand  and  sea, 
ibe  hne  of  dazzling  white  houses,  and  on  the  little  English  '"''"' — ^^  , 
the  Sim  glares  in  fierce  intensity,  and  its  reflected  rays  seem  lio-". —  - " 
than  those  that  fall  on  you  du^ct 

No  wonder  that  the  unhappy  Europe^ios  who  are  forced  to  rei^^^j^    , 
here  exhaust  e*-eiy  simile  from  the  "  Inferno  "  to  try  and  descrih^^ 
horrors  ;  you  can  scarcely  even  wonder  at  the  appalling  number  of 
suicides,  among  men  half-maddened  by  the  sun.     As  a  sample  or  the 
delightful  effect  of  life  in  Aden  on  the  British  mind,   we  were  toirf 
that  when  the  Sznd  Regiment  were  about  to  be  relieved  from  thii 
hateful  station  they  were  at  the  last  moment  detained  for  an  extra 
three  months,  and  so  intense  was  the  revulsion  from  bliss  to  miser)* 
that  before  the  three  months  had  expired  no  less  than  ten  men  had 
committed  suicide.     I  merely  tell  the  facts  as  they  were  told  to  me. 
Yet  there  are  always  some  curious  mortals  who  find  pleasure  in 
what  most  disgusts  others  ;  who  find  meat  where  others  see  onlj 
poison  ;  so,  even  at  Aden,  I  met  one  or  two  men  who  spoke  of  the 
place  with  positive  affection,  and  I  confess  that  as  we  sat  in  the  grwi 
cool  iron  room  at  the  house  of  the  P.  and  O.  Company,  all  draped 
with  flags,  and  green  with  giant  ferns  (where  could  they  have  growD?) 
— and  as  we  looked  over  the  blue  straits  into  the  plains  and  hills  if 
Arabui,  I  almost  thought  that  even  Aden  could  be  pleasant,  more 
especially  as  an  excellent  piano  (suggesting  the  ball  of  the  preiio'is 
night)  ser\-cd  to  accompany  the  rich  and  tuneful  voice  of  our  host  i" 
many  of  our  lavourite  old  songs. 

In  the  street  extending  along  the  shore  we  found  shops,  kept  by 
Farsees  from  Bombay,  for  the  sale  of  English  and  foreign  wW*- 
But  fat  more  attractive  were  the  quaint  merchants   of  the  shot*^ 
genuine    Arabs,    with  long   lines    of  camels,  bringing    grains  nn'* 
coflee  from  the  interior,  and  armed  with  strange  weapons.    M(»"* 
curious  still  are  the  SomaUs,  genuine  brown  savages,  lean  lanfc:^ 
beings,  mth  a  minimum  of  raiment     Here  first  you  are  struck  vrit-*^ 
the  fact  of  the  Eastern  leg  having  no  calf,  and  a  singularly  projeciiw* 
heel,  suggesting  the  Oriental  description  of  a  treacherous  foe  foliotir** 
a  man's  footsteps,  as  one  seeking  to  "  bruise  his  heeL" 

These  odd  beings  come  out  in  boat-loads  to  meet  the  steam^*' 
offering  things  for  sale  :  ostrich  feathers,  leopard  skins,  fans,  shel** 
coral,  eggs,  sticks  made  of  rhinoceros  horn,  and  very  quaint  wi*^ 
baskets.  Their  chief  anxiety  is  to  be  allowed  to  dive  for  coin,  wbi*^ 
they  almost  invariably  bring  up  from  the  depths  of  the  sea. 
favourite  steam-boat  trick  is  to  throw  the  metallic  cap  fron  llw  "* 


Down  the  Red  Sea.  351 

of  wine-bottles,  a  deception  which  their  quick  eye  detects  before 
they  have  dived  many  yards,  and  they  return  to  the  surface  with  a 
laughing  prayer  for  better  coin. 

I  am  afraid  that  this  is  not  the  only  occasion  when  this  base  sub- 
stitute for  coin  of  the  realm  is  made  to  do  duty  instead  of  the 
genuine  article.  It  is  said  that  the  number  of  these  tops  which  find 
their  way  into  the  church  offertories  of  Hindoostan  is  strangely  dis- 
creditable. One  clergyman  is  reported  to  have  announced  the  sum 
collected  on  the  previous  Sunday  as  amounting  to  so  many  rupees 
and  annas,  and  thirteen  soda-water  tops !  I  doubt  whether  any  of 
the  heathen  temples  could  have  told  of  parallel  irreverence. 

Further  to  enhance  their  beauty,  fashion  requires  the  Somalis  to  dye 
their  black  hair  to  the  fashionable  red  hue.  They  have  no  Madame 
Rachel  to  invent  new  and  refined  methods  of  attaining  this  desirable 
end,  but  follow  the  custom  of  their  forefathers,  and  plaster  their 
heads  with  mud  and  lime,  so  that  while  undergoing  this  process  their 
bodies  seem  to  be  surmounted  by  an  earthy  nodule  ;  after  a  given 
time  this  is  washed  off,  and  the  captive  hair  comes  forth  rampant,  a 
regular  door-mat  of  wild,  shaggy,  reddish-yellow  wool — ^probably 
further  adorned  by  an  upright  ostrich  feather !  As  a  race  they  are 
weak  men,  said  to  have  little  stamina  or  power  of  endurance — more 
especially  unable  to  endure  thirst,  to  which  one  might  suppose  they 
were  well  inured.  Many  of  them  have  the  teeth  much  discoloured 
from  the  practice  of  chewing  kat^  a  mildly  exciting  drug. 

Their  curious  method  of  wishing  anybody  good  luck  is  to  spit 
upon  him — a  custom  which  certainly  sounds  strange  to  us,  and  yet 
is  somewhat  akin  to  that  of  licking  thumbs,  which  in  bygone  days 
was  the  recognised  symbol  among  the  lower  classes  all  over  Scotland 
that  a  sale  had  been  agreed  on,  and  all  was  satisfactory.  To  this 
day  the  custom  is  quite  common  in  some  parts  of  Ross.shire  and 
Sutherland,  where  a  lick  often  precedes  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand 
in  acknowledging  an  obligation  of  any  sort  whatever.  The  practice 
was  even  recognised  by  law,  and  decrees  are  extant  sustaining  sales 
upon  summonses  of  thumb-licking,  which  state  that  the  parties  had 
licked  thumbs  when  concluding  their  bargain  !  It  is  said  that  the 
same  custom  prevails  in  some  parts  of  India.  In  the  north-western 
Highlands  of  Scotland  this  was  the  orthodox  ceremony  of  betrothal 
between  lad  and  lass,  and  to  break  the  vow  thus  plighted  was  held 
to  be  a  vile  form  of  perjury.  So  you  see  the  Somalis  are  not  the 
only  race  who  recognise  mystic  virtue  in  saliva  ! 

Captain  Burton  has  given  us  some  very  curious  particulars  of  his 
wanderings  among  these  people.     He  tells  us  how  one  night  he 


35-  TVi^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

ovirhe^rJ  i  w  >iuj.r.  ^oani.'.g  in  spirit,  in  agony  from  tootluurhtf, 
anddll  nij^h:  lon^  her  <  r>-  wis  **0  Allah  I  may  Thy  teeth  ache  like 
mine.  O  A"Lih  "  r.:iy  i' iv  j;uais  be  sore  as  mine."  The  poor  soul, 
like  all  her  r.eig'ibour!?.  nrste*;  her  aching  head  on  a  hollowed  blcxrk 
of  ti->.Hi  w.vc'i  acta  the  par:  yyi  a  pillow.  All  the  Somalis  wage  deadly 
wanare  a-;^:r.5:  :!:e  cro.v.  which  ihey  affirm  to  have  been  created 
white,  but  wihc'i  i.:  e*.  :i  hour  betrayed  the  hiding-place  of  the 
Propiec  by  an  u.-itiniily  cr^ii,  whereupon  he  cursed  the  bird  of  ill- 
omer.  and  i:  hecame  black,  since  which  lime  it  has  shared  the  fiitc 
of  ^l  creatures  whin  down  in  their  luck,  and  has  been  mercilessly 
hooted,  and  :>ecked  a:,  ar.i  de-troved. 

A:v;or.^  o:h.T  ^uiir.:  statistics  of  Somali  domestic  life  we  are  told 
that  the  custom  of  k:<sr'j:  is  a  thing  unknown  ;  that  the  regulation 
allowance  of»:ve>  is  four  as  authorised  by  the  Prophet),  and  that 
on  the  am\-a!  of  a  new  one  the  amiable  husband  inaugurates  the 
a:v.en::.es  of  denies: :c  life  by  ;;:\:ng  the  bride  a  sound  whipping  with 
a  ^Mthcrn  thor.:.  by  way  o:  a:  once  subduing  any  lurking  ill- temper  in 
the  h:cklv'<!>  dan:  scL  F.\:den:ly  the  Somalis  have  yet  to  learn  the 
Svo:ch  vro^ c*r>  :ha:  "  Ve  n:ay  ding  the  de'il  into  a  woman,  but  ye'll 
n>  vh",:  ::  ou:  o'  her  " '  We  found  considerable  amusement  in 
barman::*;:  ^  .:h  sonie  of  these  i:ueer  beings  for  their  various 
mcrv^uneliso.  an.i  were  niuch  struck  by  the  acuteness  of  the  inevitable 
"  cam -^"-- the  y.^uv^  s^iva^ce  mind  having  e\'idently  imbibed  many 
Western  \  c\\s  on  the  mo  rah  :v  of  trade. 

One  of  our  'V-e  :d>.  wh:se  "sunny"  quaners  were  up  in  the 
cantonments,  no*  si-^cst^d  :ha:  we  should  drive  there,  which  we 
acvvrvhniily  vi:  h  :\is;>::*^  t'^rou^zh  dark  funnels  and  deep  fissures  iji 
the  r\v<<,  all  !>::r\.\:  an.:  guarded,  so  that  not  the  most  cat-like 
Ata'o  couM  h\  u:*y  yoss:.  li/.y  enter  Tritish  territory  save  by  the 
authoT.scvi  rcuu.  .*.n.:  u~.:er  surveillance  of  many  sentries. 
Ua;ot;;l  a<  u*c  «h::  :vu.-  bo  called  "  the  civil  lines"  of  Aden,  this 
miUiarv  ^!a;.c".  vxcccvis  ::>  horrors  tenfold,  being  literally  the  heart 
v^f  an  cxtmv :  c:a:cr  anu  no'h  ng  but  a  crater — barren  as  on  the  day 
ol  Us  oivav.ov.,  K\;l::  c\irhead  towers  Tebel  Shamsan,  where, 
A\\vult«c  to  Aral'»  ::adi:lon.  Ca  n  and  his  sons  built  the  first  fi^^ 
temple  on  the  Irghest  crest  of  the  crater.  Here,  too,  Cain  (or  Kabil, 
tts  thcv  call  Inm^  was  >u;  Cvl  — a  n.oe:  :onib  for  a  murderer. 

As  a  station  for  h.v:ma:\  be.ngs  in  the  tni^pics  none  more  hateful 
wuU  bo  c\MK\;\cd.  I:  i<  a  true  trap  for  sunbeims,  where  they  are 
least  wcU xMUv',  a;vl  :l:o  to-.njvratnre  in  sun;mer  is  such  that  it  could 
soaivclv  bo  l\oiun  if  the  \ohM:*o  wjre  in  f.:li  play.    On  every  side  we 


\«\ 


Down  the  Red  Sea.  353 

Even  then,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  the  sultry  heat  was  almost  unbear- 
able ;  the  breathless  stillness,  the  oppressive  glare  and  brightness — 
and  from  our  hearts  we  pitied  our  luckless  countrymen,  who 
stood  melting  on  parade,  or  cleaning  big  guns  and  piling  shot  and 
shell. 

The  aforesaid  ancient  tanks  were  the  next  object  of  interest—  a 
wonderful  series  of  gigantic  reservoirs  coated  with  polished  white 
cement  like  marble,  and  constructed  one  behind  the  other,  up  the 
principal  gorge  in  the  black-rock  mountain,  so  that  whenever  it  does 
rain,  which  it  does  about  once  in  three  years,  *  every  drop  of  water  that 
falls  on  any  part  of  the  cliffs  rushes  down  the  hard,  clean  lava,  by 
myriad  courses,  into  one  or  other  of  these  tanks — and  though  they  are 
said  to  contain  thirty  million  gallons,  in  less  than  half  an  hour  they  are 
full  to  overflowing:  a  statement  which  is  generally  disbelieved  by  new 
comers,  so  that  when  the  rare  delight  of  rain  begins,  every  one  rushes 
to  the  tanks,  heedless  of,  or  rather  rejoicing  in,  the  luxury  of  getting 
soaked  ;  our  escort  told  us  that  he,  for  one,  had  verified  the  assertion, 
for  that  less  than  half  an  hour  had  flooded  the  place.  These  tanks 
are  relics  of  the  days  of  Aden's  mediaeval  greatness,  but,  as  we  have 
seen,  their  very  existence  was  long  forgotten,  and  they  were  only 
discovered  in  the  course  of  certain  excavations,  and  restored  within 
recent  years. 

Round  the  tanks  are  minute  shrubberies  which  are  shown  with 
piide,  as  a  triumph  of  skill  over  nature.  They  contain  some  common 
green  plants,  which  have  been  reared  at  a  cost  far  beyond  the  most 
precious  exotics.  The  flower-beds  are  neatly  edged  with  inverted 
soda-water  bottles — very  suggestive  !  In  former  days  the  whole 
supply  of  drinking  water  had  to  be  carried  into  the  settlements  from 
wells  outside  the  fortifications.  Now  the  power  of  distilling  fresh 
water  from  the  sea  has  made  the  place  independent  of  such  risk  of 
drought. 

Returning  along  the  shore,  we  had  the  delight  of  collecting  shells 
and  corals  of  various  sorts  and  colours — dead  and  wave-worn,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  nevertheless  a  joy  which  it  were  vain  to  tell  to 
unsympathising  ears.  One  who  understood  it  well — a  great,  large- 
hearted  man  ^ — has  compared  it  to  the  bliss  of  nutting  in  the  auturpn 
woods  ;  and  well  do  we  all  know  it  who  in  the  bright  days  of  happy 
childhood  have  played  on  the  golden  sands,  and  in  beautiful  caves, 
"  roking "  in  transparent  rock  pools  for  shells  and  weeds  and  all 
manner  of  spoils  of  the  deep  ! 

*  So  at  least  we  were  assured  by  some  Adenites  ;  others  declared  they  had  a 
regular  rainy  season  every  year. 

*  Dr.  Norman  Macleod. 


354  ^^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

It  was  still  daylight  when  we  returned  with  all  our  treasures  to 
the  good  ship  ;  so  being  anxious  to  get  a  drawing  of  the  "Old  Cinder 
Heap "  (as  Aden  is  irreverently  called),  we  engaged  a  picturesque 
native  boat,  and  rowed  out  to  sea  a  couple  of  miles.  If  ever  distance 
lent  enchantment  to  any  view,  it  does  so  to  Aden,  which  became 
more  and  more  beautiful  as  we  receded,  and  the  evening  lights 
transfigured  the  brown  rocks  till  we  were  fain  to  do  them  homage  as 
to  a  stately  king  clothed  in  imperial  purple  and  crowned  with  rubies, 
having  for  emerald  throne  the  clear  green  sea.  BehiiKl  us  the  lesser 
rocks  stood  out  like  sharp  needles,  "  dark  against  day's  golden 
death,"  and  everything  was  very  still  and  solemn. 

Sorely  we  grudged  having  to  return  to  the  many  jarring  souxkIs 
uf  steam- boat  life,  and  all  night  long  the  dirty  work  of  coaling  went 
on  with  infinite  noise  :  half-naked  Somalis  tramping  up  and  down 
wiili  heavy  coal-baskets,  singing  wild  choruses,  talking  and  shouting- 
seeming  in  the  pale  lamplight  like  some  weird  visitors  from  the  lower 
world,  working  out  their  dreary  penance. 

At  sunrise  wc  sailed,  leaving  the  rock  in  grand  dark  masses, 
capped  with  li^^ht  mists,  and  the  shapely  peaks  of  Jcbel  Hussan 
lying  on  the  horizon,  flushed  with  delicate  pink  and  lilac.  And  so 
we  b.idc  farewell  to  the  Red  Sea. 

C  F.  GORDON  GUMMING. 


PAUL    SCARRON. 

M^RLY  there  flourished  an  entire  branch  of  literature,  which 

gradual  progress  of  civilisation  and  an  increased  tendency 

delicacy,  or  at  least  to  decent  ijhraseology,  is  prone  lo  efface, 

lUy  lo  obliterate ;  this  branch  is  the  "  burlesque."     lis  aini 

ose  human  foibles  and  to  contrast  incongruities  without  pre- 

)  harmonise  tliera ;  it  must  be  lively  without  being  ironical, 

satiiical,  and  is  nearly  always  accompanied  by  a  certain 

if  coarseness,  not  unmixed  with  good  nature,  careful  descrip- 

ilails,  and  even  a  somewhat  fanciful  imaginative  power.     It 

chooses  grave  or  nobly-born  personages  and  places  them  in 

9  and  minh-provoking  situations,  makes  them  express  ihetn- 

sentences  strongly  in  contrast  with  those  we  should  naturally 

lem  to  employ,  and  is  more  or  less  related  to  the  "  mock- 

'in  which  vulgar  and  commonplace  characters  adopt  a  lietoic 

bearing,  and  use  grandiloquent  expressions  quite  opposed 

rery-day  actions.     In  both  may  be  fotmd  a  continual  anti- 

'een  the  actors  in  the  human  drama  and  the  language  put 

mouth.     Tiie  burlesque   school  flourished  again   on  the 

Stage  during  the  palmy  days  of  the  Second  Empire,  and  its 

ipread  all  over  Europe,  so  that  there  exists  scarcely  any 

"Or  semi -civilised  country  which  has  not  been  satiated  with 

"  La  Belle    H^l-ne,"    "  Orph^e  aux   Enfers,"   "  I^ 

Duchesse,"   and   others  of  the  same  kind.     Some  of  the 

mic  operas  of  the  present  time  also  show  a  strong  leaning 

mock-heroic." 

ancients  did  not  often  make  use  of  "  burlesque  "  as  it  is  at 
'nndetstood,  though  it  seems  to  have  been  known  to  them ; 
satirical  dramas,  in  which  gods  and  heroes  are  uttering 
language,  appear  to  belong  to  this  categor)'.  The  "  Batra- 
nachia,  the  Battle  between  the  Frogs  and  Mice,"  which 
pie  adventures  of  Psycarpax  "  of  great  Troxarlas  line,"  apper- 
Bier  lo  the  mock-heroic  school.  During  the  sixteenth  century 
Mtob'an  poets,  such  as  Benii  in  his  "Rime  burlesche,"  and 
p  in  his  "  Esequic  di  Mecenaie,"  and  other  works,  obtained  a 


356  TJke  GentUma^s  Magazine. 

great  repatation  in  boriesqae  poetry^  biu,strictlj  speaking,  their  vnu, 
rultorspaiklingwit,  vivacious  baflboneiy,  or  vengeful  satire,  irojoticnt 
of  all  restraint,  so  elegant  in  stjle,  hannonious  in  metre,  and  Ucentious 
in  expression,  is  wholly  itifferent  from  what  the  English  and  Ftendi 
understand  by  "  burlesque  " — a  word  which  seems  not  to  have  been 
employed  before  the  year  1637,  when  the  French  poet  Sanuin  wu 
the  first  to  make  use  of  it,  instead  of  "grotesque,"  which  until  Ihtn 
had  been  in  fashion. 

Burlesque  Hierature  in  France  was  chiefly  in  vogue  duni^  the 
greater  part  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  the  most  pompous  of  99 
monarchs,  who,  whatever  were  bis  faults,  played  his  royal  part  wilht 
more  than  becoming  dignity,  and  strutted, "  evcfy  inch  a  king,"  before 
the  courtiers,  who  idolised  him,  or  pretended  to  do  so,  and  the  Frcndi 
nation  at  large,  who  admired  him  till  within  the  latter  years  of  bii 
rule.  Burlesque  had  sprung  up,  however,  whilst  bis  royal  father  wi 
still  alive,  at  a  time  when  nobles  and  adventurers  were  swaggcril^ 
about  in  gaily -bedizened  apparel,  with  martial  air,  cur!ed-up  nmi- 
tachioa,  their  hands  continually  on  the  hilts  of  their  swords,  adilrea- 
iug  one  another  in  metaphorical  and  bombastic  language,  and  aclins 
nearly  always  in  a  more  or  less  absurd  manner. 

Another  branch  of  literature  is  often  confounded  with  the  "biB* 
lesque,"  namely,  the  "  jocose,"  or  what  the  French  call  the  ^W 
bouffon ;  but  this  only  seeks  to  produce  laughter,  and  selects,  thettfift.. 
characters,  scenes,  and  ideas  which  are  ridiculous  and  clothed  iau 
analogous  style.  By  "  grotesque  "  is  now  generally  understood «? 
literary  or  artistic  work  having  a  tendency  to  caricature,  comlnnBi 
with  superabundant  warmth  of  colour,  eccentricity  of  exprcssioo, 
fantastic  weirdness  and  originality,  and,  above  all,  with  an  indiniUM 
to  exaggerate  what  is  naturally  handsome  or  hideous.  In  allihednS 
branches  of  comic  literature  just  mentioned  Paid  Scairon  was  eaat( 
first,  and  is  considered  by  the  Frenchamasier  in  these  peculiar  litenif 
subdivisions.  It  is,  therefore,  strange  that  up  to  the  present  time  m 
good  life  of  this  author  has  ever  been  written  in  France ;  tliougb  ll* 
may  be  partly  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  until  the  death  i 
Louis  XIV.  his  very  name  was  "  tabooed"  in  courtly  circles. 

Paul  Scarron — whose  name  is  sometimes  nTitten  with  one  "r'- 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  literary  phenomen.i,  did  not  beginW 
exercise  his  talents  till  almost  wholly  crippled  in  body  and  "* 
pletely  paralysed.     He  was  born  in  Paris  about  the  year  ilii' 
his  father,  a  biirrister,  or,  as  it  was  then  called,  a  ionstilltr  au 
mint,  is  said  to  have  enjoyed  a  yearly  income  of  more  than, 
thousand  livres,  which  may  be  considered  as  equivalent  to 


a 


Paul  Scarron.  357 

thousand  pounds  sterling  at  the  present  time.  According  to  some, 
his  family  came  originally  from  Lyons,  but  the  most  accredited 
opinion  is  that  the  Scarrons  were  a  branch  of  a  noble  house  from 
Moncaglieri,  in  Pi^mont,  where  one  of  his  ancestors  lies  buried  under 
a  tomb  of  white  marble,  in  one  of  the  chapels  of  this  small  town. 
Another  branch  took  the  name  of  De  Veaujour  in  addition  to 
its  own,  and  in  1629  one  of  its  female  members  married  the 
well-known  French  Marshal  Antoine  d*Aumont-Rochebaron,  whilst 
the  name  of  an  uncle  of  our  author,  who  was  bishop  of  Grenoble, 
has  only  come  down  to  posterity  on  account  of  the  length  of  his 
beard. 

Life  must  have  seemed  roseate  to  Paul  Scarron,  for  he  was  well 
connected,  young,  had  fair  prospects  of  rising  in  the  world,  and  was 
dearly  beloved  by  his  parents,  as  well  as  by  half-a-dozen  brothers  and 
sisters.  The  death  of  his  mother,  Gabrielle  Goguet,  was  the  first  blow 
he  received ;  his  father  married  again  a  certain  Frangoise  de  Plaix, 
and  a  second  family  made  its  appearance.  Old  Scarron  was  an  easy, 
going  man,  who,  no  doubt,  only  wished  to  spend  his  life  pleasantly, 
but  the  second  wife  was,  probably,  domineering,  and  not  too  friendly 
disposed  towards  her  step-children.  Paul,  then  a  mere  youth,  often 
replied  in  bitter  epigrammatic  language  to  her  stinging  remarks,  and, 
even  at  that  time,  gave  as  good  as  he  received.  The  domestic  hearth 
became  unbearable,  and  finally  his  father  was  obliged  to  send  him 
away  on  a  visit  to  one  of  his  relatives,  then  dwelling  in  Charleville,  a 
town  in  the  French  Ardennes,  only  built  about  fifteen  years  before 
by  the  Duke  of  Nevers.  Here  Paul  remained  for  nearly  two 
years,  and,  when  scarcely  seventeen  years  old,  returned  to  Paris 
became  an  abbe,  and  gave  himself  up  to  a  life  of  pleasure  and 
enjoyment.  He  visited  the  houses  of  such  free-and-easy  beauties 
as  Marion  de  Lorme  and  Ninon  de  TEnclos,  and  struck  up 
an  acquaintance  with  such  jovial  epicureans  as  Saint- Evremond, 
Chapelle,  Bachaumont,  and  many  other  literary  men  of  fashion  whose 
notions  of  morality  and  philosophy  were  not  very  rigid.  Thus  he 
went  his  round  in.  the  merry  whirligig  of  Parisian  life,  until,  in  his 
twenty-fourth  year,  he  left  for  Italy,  a  voyage  at  that  time  almost 
considered  necessary  to  give  the  final  polish  to  a  gentleman  and 
scholar. 

He  seems  to  have  stopped  there  for  some  time,  and  met  at 
Rome  the  painter  Nicolas  Poussin  and  the  French  poet  Francois 
Maynard ;  but  whatever  impressions  Italy  made  on  him,  no  trace  of 
them  is  to  be  found  in  his  writings.  He  did  not  endeavour  ''  Old 
Rome  out  of  her  ashes  to  revive,  and  give  a  second  life  to  dead 


35S  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

decayes,"  *  for  the  only  mention  to  be  found  in  his  works  of  Italy  is 
when  he  si>eaks  of  "the  'vineyards,'"  a  name  given  to  several 
gardens  in  Rome  finer  than  those  of  the  Luxembuig  or  the  Tuileiies, 
which  cardinals  and  other  persons  of  rank  keep  up  at  great  expense, 
more  out  of  vanity  than  for  their  own  amusement,  as  they  never,  or 
at  least  very  seldom,  go  there  themselves. "*•*  These  so-called  "vine, 
yards  "  were,  in  reality,  country  houses  in  which  old  and  young  sprigs 
of  nobility  often  entertained  their  friends  of  both  sexes — above  all, 
those  who  were  not  too  particular  in  their  notions  of  moralit}'.  It  is 
more  than  probable  that  our  youthful  abbe  caught  there  the  germs  of 
the  dreadful  disease  which  afterwards  destroyed  his  health  and  made 
him  a  helpless  invalid  for  life,  until  death  released  him  from  all  his 
sufferings. 

We  find  Scarron  back  in  France  about  the  year  1637  ;  he  *"as 
residing  then  at  a  country  seat  of  the  Count  de  Tesse,  Veraie,  nearly 
fifteen  leagues  from  the  town  of  Mans.  Thither  he  seems  to  have 
returned  often,  for  some  poetical  epistles,  addressed  to  Madame  de 
Hautefort,  are  dated  from  Vernie,  four  and  six  years  later ;  but  he 
probably  dwelt  habitually  in  Paris.  Meanwhile,  Cardinal  Richelieu 
had  dismissed  his  father  from  his  official  position,  on  account  of 
some  fancied  cons[)iracy,  and  banished  him  to  Touraine. 

Young  Scarron  was  now  in  his  twenty-seventh  year;  he  "had had 
a  constitution  strong  enough  to  drink  as  much  as  most  men,**  or,  as 
he  himself  calls  it,  i  ral/emande)  "had  been  a  good  dancer,  some- 
what of  an  artist,  and  even  a  musician,  able  to  play  fairly  on  the  lute, ' 
and  skilful  in  all  bodily  exercises;"^  but  then  he  became  sorely  dis- 
tressed by  the  appearance  of  the   first   symptoms   of  his  terrible 
malady,  which,  lasting  for  more  than  twenty  years,  rendered  him 
completely  paralysed ;   so  that  at  last  he  sometimes  could  move 
neither  hand  nor  foot,   and   only  wag  his   tongue  and  turn  about 
his  head.     This  he   says  himself   in   prefacing  one  of  his  latter 
works  :  "  to  that  pair  of  worthy  gentlemen  and  my  dearly  beloved 
friends  Menage  and  Sarazin,  or  Sarazin  and  Me'nage,  to  whom  I 
dedicate  this  book,  in  (.»rdcT  to  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.    lean- 
not  tell  whether  1  have  any  claim  to  act  on  this  proverb,  as  I  am  a 
cripple  both  in  my  hands  and  feet." 

'  ranuinil  Spenser's  Envoy  to  Du  Bcllay,  prefixed  to  the  English  poet's 
lran.sl.iiu»n  of  his  I'lcncli  compeer's  AniiquUcs  de  Rome, 

•  Sit  Soainm's  Ccmual  Romanct^  part  i.  ch.  xiii. 

*  Scarron  states  this  himself  in  a  letter  to  the  Abb£  Jacques  Caipentierik 
M  ai  !»:»>■•  ^^^  "^^  ^^^  pamphleteers  of  the  Fronde,  several  years  after  he  bad  ^"^ 
AUackcd  l7paul)•si^. 


Paul  Scarron. 

According  lo  a  tradition  which  is  now  completely  discredited, 
EuiTon's  disease  was  owing  to  his  having  been  obliged  to  take 
Wler  in  some  stagnant  pool  to  escape  the  vengeance  of  the  popu- 
Ke  of  Mans,  enraged  at  seeing  one  of  their  clergymen  appear  in  a 
Knewhal  obscene  carnival  disgtiise  ;  but  as  he  fell  ill  about  half-a- 
loien  ye;irs  before  he  obtained  a  canon's  stall  in  the  town  just  nien- 
innsd,  it  is  more  probable  that  his  bodily  infirmities  were  the 
Wscquence  of  youthful  indiscretions  and  riotous  Uving. 

His  sufferings  became  so  great  that  he  Iried  one  physician  after 

■other  to  obtain  some  alleviation  of  bis  violent  pains,  and  whilst 

wh^  curied  about  he  composed  some  verses,  such  as  the  "  Adieu  au 

'■ — theparish  where  he  dwell— in  which  he  mentions  the  names 

faDhis  acquaintances;  and  the  Ode  "Le  Chemin  dii  Mara  is  an 

"tabouTg  Saint -Germain,"  in  which  suburb,  by  the  advice  of  some 

ilhiiniable  quack,  he  in  vain  took  some  "bains  de  tripes."     He 

•ice  went  to  essay  the  efRcacy  of  the  waters  of  Bourbon  L'Archam- 

md,  a  well-known  watering-place  almost  in  the  centre  of  France, 

*ich  afterwards  became  the  favourite  resort  of  Madame  de  Monies- 

IB,  and  wrote  some  "  L^gendes  "  in  rhyme  about  this  townlet,  where 

ealso  made  the  acquaintance  of  Gaston  d'Orleans,  the  brother  of 

twiis  XIII.     But  when  he  foimd  that  all  his  attempts  to  get  cured 

te  hopeless,  he  resolved  to  return  to  Paris,  and  to  depend  on 

wture  for  his  subsistence.     From  that  time  he  began  to  pour 

th  endless  epistles  in  verse,  sonnets,  madrigals,  songs,  and  satires, 

i  amongst  others  he  sent  to  the  Cardinal  de  Richelieu  a  poetical 

V^t,  which  was  cleverly  dated-— 

Fait  \  Paris,  cc  dernier  jour  d'Oclobrc, 
Pw  moi,  Scarron,  qui  malgi^  moi  suis  sobre, 
L'an  que  Ton  prit  Ic  fameui  Perpignar, 
lit  siDS  canon  la  ville  de  Sedan. 

This  complimentary  allusion  to  these  two  towns — the  first  taken 
""'■'  the  French  on  the  29th  of  August,  1643,  and  the  other  given 
f^  ty  the  Duke  de  Bouillon  in  the  month  of  September— might  have 
^*-*^ght  our  poet  some  pecuniary  reward  ;  but  the  death  of  the 
^*^  ister,  which  took  place  on  the  4ih  of  December  of  the  same 
J^-*;  prevented  this.  A  poetical  Requ^U  was  then  addressed  to  the 
**gi  but  the  latter  followed  the  cardinal  to  the  grave  within  a  few 
'^•iths  of  his  death,  and  so  probably  poor  Scanon  received  nothing 
*"  his  pains,  whilst  a  poetical  epistle  on  the  Fair  at  Orieans  was  for- 
^^ded  to  the  duke  of  that  name,  with  somewhat  better  results. 

About  this  time  Scarron's  father  seems  to  have  died,  and  as  our 
""^^l  thought  himself  and  his  brothers  an    sisters  unjustly  deprived 


^ 


60  The  Gentleman*s  Magazine. 


of  a  portion  of  their  father's  inheiitance,  he  commenced  a  law-suit 
against  his  step-mother,  which,  even  in  Scarron's  time,  was  not  done 
for  nothing.  At  that  time  he  had  two  sisters  depending  on  him,  of 
whom  he  himself  is  reputed  to  have  said,  "  that  the  one  loved 
wine  not  wisely  but  too  well,  and  that  the  other  showed  her  affection 
for  the  male  sex  in  a  similar  manner,"*  whilst  his  health  gave  way, 
at  the  ver)-  moment  he  was  compelled  to  think  of  making  a  living. 
Luckily  for  him,  in  1643  he  was  appointed  to  some  prebend  belong- 
ing to  the  Githedral  of  Mans,  through  the  influence  of  a  certain 
Abbe  de  Lavardin,  a  descendant  of  an  influential  and  noble  Maine 
family,  who,  five  years  after  Scarron's  nomination,  became  himself 
bishop  of  that  town,  and  one  of  whose  relatives  had,  a  score  of  years 
before,  filled  the  same  episcopal  seat  for  more  than  thirty-six  yeaiiL 
As  Scarron  had  already  been  presented  to  the  Queen  by  Madame 
de  Hautefort,  and  had  obtained  the  title  of  "the  Queen's  own 
patient,"  as  well  as  a  pension,  and  as  even  the  miserly  Cardinal 
Mazarin  allow*cd  him  five  hundred  crowns  a  year,  he  seems  for 
nearly  three  years  to  have  lived  in  clover  at  Mans  and  to  have  dwelt 
in  one  of  the  residences  allowed  to  the  canons  of  the  cathedral, 
which  finally  he  was  obliged  to  abandon. 

A  year  after  being  appointed  to  his  living  he  published  "  Typbon, 
ou  la  Gigantomachie,"  a  long  poem  in  five  cantos,  relating  the  war 
and  revolts  of  the  giants  against  the  gods,  which  belongs  rather  to 
the  jocose  than  to  the  burlesque  branch  of  literature,  for  the  giants 
were  to  Scarron  no  real  "  grave  and  noble  personages  placed  in  ridi- 
culous situations,"  but,  b  *  owed  by  him  from  the  mythology,  became 
the  creatures  of  his  own  eccentric  fancy,  expressing  themselves  in 
most  extraordinar)*  language.  In  the  first  canto  of  "  Typhon," 
Cardinal  Mazarin  is  addressed  as  follows  :  — 

O  grand  Mazarin,  6  grand  Homme  ! 
Riche  iresor  venu  dc  Rome  .  .  • 
Ksprit  qui  nc  l*cndors  jamais, 
Expert  en  guerre,  expert  en  paix, 
Jule  plus  grand  que  le  grand  Jule. 

This  canto  begins  thus  : — 

Je  chante,  quoique  d'un  gobicr 
Qui  ne  mache  point  de  laurier. 
Xon  Hector,  non  le  brave  Ence, 
Non  Amphiare  ou  Capanee, 

*  Scarron's  elder  sister,  Fian9oise,  wab  generally  believed  to  have  been  the 
mistress  of  the  Duke  de  Tresmes,  though  some  persons  pretended  she  was  married 
to  him. 


Paul  Scarrofi.  361 

Non  le  vaillant  Bis  de  Thetis ; 
Tous  ces  gens-li  sont  trop  pclits, 
Et  ne  vont  pas  h.  la  ccintiire 
De  ceux  dont  j'ecris  Tavcnture. 
Jc  chante  cet  homme  etonnant, 
Devant  qui  Jupiter  tonnant, 
Plus  vite  qu*un  trait  d'arbal^te, 
S'enfuit  sans  oser  tcnir  tete. 
Je  chante  Thorrible  Typhon, 
Au  nez  crochu  commc  un  griffon, 
A  qui  cent  bras,  longs  com  me  gaules, 
Sortaient  de  deux  seules  epaules. 

"  Typhon  "  pleased  the  public  and  sold  largely.  Scanron  re- 
solved now  to  try  his  hand  at  play-writing,  and,  a  year  after  the 
publication  of  his  poem,  brought  out  at  the  theatre  of  the  Hotel  de 
Bourgogne  a  comedy  in  five  acts  and  in  verse,  "  Jodelet,  ou  le  Mattre 
Valet,"  in  which  the  Spanish  "  Gracioso "  is  put  on  the  stage  as  a 
boasting,  bragging  servant,  full  of  vices  and  impudence.  This  comedy 
was  so  successful  that  the  following  year  another  play  of  Scarron,  also 
in  verse,  made  its  appearance, — "  Les  Trois  Doroth^es,  ou  Jodelet 
soufflet^," — which  again  appears  to  have  been  highly  appreciated,  for 
within  a  twelvemonth  was  published  a  third  of  his  versified 
iX)medies,  "  Les  Boutades  du  Capitan  Matamore  et  ses  Comedies," 
in  which  a  sort  of  French  Bobadil  relates  his  adventures  in  stanzas, 
odes,  elegies,  and  various  kinds  of  verse,  and  describes  even  his 
marriage  in  rhymes  all  ending  in  "  ment " ;  but  it  seems  never  to 
have  been  acted.' 

The  plot  of  all  Scarron's  comedies,  borrowed  from  the  Spanish, 
never  very  clear,  becomes  more  and  more  entangled  as  the  play  goes 
on.  Servants  blunder,  ladies'-maids  make  mistakes  through 
stupidity,  thoughtlessness,  or  even  sometimes  by  chance,  and  finally 
the  intricate  clue  is  unravelled  by  an  accident  quite  unforeseen  and 
startling.  The  actors  indulge  in  stupid  conversation  and  foolish 
compliments ;  the  hand  of  the  old  and  doating  lover  is  always 
refused,  and  he  is  not  seldom  ridiculed;  the  young  gallant  is  ever 
represented  as  lively  and  tenderly  beloved;  and  whilst  the  male  and 
female  servant  fill  up  the  comic  scenes,  hardly  any  attempt  is 
made  at  original  character  drawing  ;  and  the  unity  of  place,  even  at 
present  so  beloved  by  the  French,  is  wholly  neglected,  and  one  act 
takes  place  in  a  garden,  and  another  in  a  room  or  street. 

The  "Eneide  Travestita"  of  the  Italian  poet  J.  B.  Lalli 
probably  suggested  to  Scarron  his  **  Viigile  Travesti,"  a  somewhat 

*  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  this  comedy  in  any  of  the  collected  editions  of 
Scanron's  works. 

VOU  CCLVIII.     >'0.  i^S^,  C  C 


The  GentlejnaHS  Magazine. 


coarse  but  perfect  model  of  a  burlesque  poem,  the  first  book  ol 
which  appeared  in  164S,  and  was  dedicated  to  the  Queen  Anoeof 
Austria.  He  announced  his  intentions  of  publishing  every  month 
in  succession  a  travestie  of  one  of  the  twelve  books  of  \ 
"^neid,"  but  seems,  however,  to  have  abandoned  this  idea,  for  lie 
seventh  book,  dedicated  to  the  Duke  of  Roquelaure,  "  the  uglitJt 
man  in  France,"  was  only  published  during  the  latter  half  of  the  yeu 
1651.  Scairon  burlesqued  the  first  eight  books  of  Virgil's  epic  poem, 
and  Charles  Cotton,  the  friend  of  Walton,  and  author  of  the  Hcoml 
part  of  the  "  Complete  Angler,"  translated,  not  vet^'  faithfuny,  into 
English  the  first  and  fourth  books  of  Scarron's  version,  taking  care  not 
to  soften  a  single  indelicate  or  coarse  expression.  1 
sample  of  the  English  |)araphrase  the  description  of  the  sight  Emu 
beheld  on  landing  at  Carthage  : — 

The  town  was  full  all  in  a  pother, 

Some  doing  one  thing,  some  anothei. 

Some  tligHiDg  were,  some  making  motut, 

Some  hewing  stones  in  such  a  qunner ; 

For  they  were  all,  as  story  tells, 

Suilding  or  doing  something  else  : 

And  to  be  short,  all  that  he  sees 

Were  working  busily  as  bees, 

I'  the  middle  of  the  town  Iheie  stood 

A  goodly  elm  o'ei^jrowo  with  wood  : 

And  under  that  were  slocks  most  duly. 

To  lock  them  fast  that  were  unruly  .... 

Near  stood  the  church,  a  pretty  building, 

Flain  as  a  pike-stnlT  without  gilding ; 

I  cannot  liken  any  to  it. 

Unless  'l  be  Fancros,  if  you  know  it. 

The  "Virgile  Travesti"  created  a  perfect  furore,  and  s 
host  of  imitators  sprang  up,  who  did  their  best  to  follotv  in  *•* 
footsteps  of  Scarron,  and  to  burlesque  in  verse  Ovid,  Horace,  Lticia^ 
Juvenal,  Homer,  and  other  celebrated  classical  authors,  whilst  one  "^ 
these  imitators  even  ventured  to  describe  in  burlesque  veise  tl>* 
"Passion  of  Our  Lord."  This  rage  for  "burlesque"  lasted  for^w*^ 
twenty  years,  and  then  subsided  as  suddenly  as  it  had  originate** 
None  of  these  burlesque  poems  is  now  remembered  except  Scanoo'* 
which,  in  spite  of  its  want  of  delicacy,  its  forced  and  often  tirww**^ 
buffoonery,  contains  entire  passages  inspired  by  real  "  vis  comic*^ 
and  full  of  true  wit  and  ingenious  and  refined  criticism. 

The  success  of  Scarron's  poem  was  a  great  boon  to  him,  »C*^ 
enabled  him  to  live  for  some  time  in  comparative  comfort  aD4  «*^ 
He  stood  greatly  in  need  of  tlifise,  if  we  can  beheve  a  portrail  to^ 


f  himself,  the  accuracy  of  whicli  seems  to  be  confirmed  by  the  | 

imony  of  all  his  friends,  and  whicli  prefaced  his  poem  "  Relation 
des  Parfiues  et  des  Pottes  sur  la  Mort  de  Voiture,"  a  poet  who  died 
in  1648,  The  book  was  adorned  with  a  copperplate  representing  a 
back  view  of  Scarron  seated  in  a  peculiar  kind  of  chair,  which  it 
ifould  be  a  misnomer  to  call  an  easy-chair,  was  dedicated  "  to  the 
courteous  reader  who  never  saw  me,"  and  accompanied  by  the 
foUoiring  written  portrait  of  the  unfortunate  author,  very  characteristic 
of  his  own  peculiar  style  : —  _ 

"Unknown  friend,  who  never  saw  me  in  your  life,  and  perhaps  I 
oever  troubled  yourself  much  about  it,  because  there  is  nothing  to  1 
be  got  by  the  sight  of  such  a  fellow  as  I  am,  allow  me  to  tell  you  that 
I  am  not  very  anxious  you  should  behohl  me  in  prepriA  persoti&, 
bcause  I  have  been  informed  that  some  facetious  gentlemen  make 
themselves  merry  at  the  expense  of  an  unhappy  wretch,  and  describe 
nie  as  another  sort  of  monster  than  I  really  am.  Some  affirm  I  am 
a  complete  cripple,'  and  others  maintain  that  I  have  no  thighs,  and 
ani  set  upon  a  table  in  a  cage,  where  I  chatter  like  a  blind  magpie; 
fhilsi  not  a  few  will  tell  you,  and  swear  it,  too,  if  you  would  let 
them,  that  my  hat  is  fastened  to  a  cord  which  runs  through  a  pulley, 
snd  that  I  hoist  it  up  or  let  it  down  as  often  as  I  have  to  salute  a 
friend  who  does  me  the  honour  of  paying  me  a  visit. 

"  I  therefore  thought  myself  obliged,  in  conscience  and  all  that,  to 
pfevent  them  from  telhng  any  longer  so  many  horrid  falsehoods  ;  and, 
•heiefore,  1  ordered  my  picture  to  be  engraved,  as  you  see  it,  in  the 
'•^sinning  of  this  booL  I  know  you  will  grumble,  courteous  reader. 
Kit  every  reader  in  the  world  grumbles  more  or  less  ;  and,  as  for  me, 
tto  grumble  as  well  as  the  best  of  them,  when  'tis  my  turn  to  be  a 
You  will  grumble,  I  dare  say,  and  huff,  and  puff,  because, 
,  I  show  you  my  back.  But  prithee,  old  friend,  don't  be  too 
.  Be  assured  that  I  did  not  do  it  with  a  design  to  turn  my 
•ck  upon  the  company,  but  only  because  its  conve.tity  Is  more  fit  to 
1  inscription  than  the  concavity  of  ray  stomach,  which  is 
*olly  covered  by  the  penthouse  of  my  head  hanging  over  it ;  and 
*>o  because  my  shape,  or  rather  my  irregular  personal  appearance, 
*9  be  perceived  from  behind  as  well  as  in  front.  I  am  not  so  con- 
1  as  to  pretend  to  make  a  present  to  the  public — for  by  those 

The  original  has  cid-Ji-jalU.  an  expression  connected  wilh  Jatte,  a  bowl, 
"lie  Ibnnerly,  before  orthopedic  science  was  Itoown,  ihose  unfortnnale 
ftirei  Tuho  hud  lost  the  use  of  Iheir  lowet  limbs,  or  even  the  limbs  them. 
*),  wer«  put  iiUo  i.  large  wooded  bowl,  and  with  (wo  stickt  in  their  hands, 
'  to  paddle  their  way  along  Ibe  high  road  of  life. 


I 


364  The  Genth-mans  Magazine. 

jolly  damsels  the  nine  musea,  I  swear  and  protest  that  I  nevet 
dreamt  in  my  life  of  seeing  my  phiz  on  a  medjl — but  I  would  hive 
had  my  picture  drawn  if  I  could  have  found  an  aillst  bold  enough 
to  lake  my  countenance  in  black  and  white.  Therefore,  for  nint  of 
a  picture,  I  describe  myself  to  you  as  near  as  I  can. 

"  I  am  past  thirty-eight,  as  you  may  see  by  the  back  of  my  ctiair. 
If  I  live  to  be  forty,  I  shall  add  the  Lord  know?  how  miny 
[Disfortunes  to  those  I  have  already  suffered  for  these  eight  or  mne 
years  past.  There  was  a  time  when  my  size  was  not  to  be  found 
fault  with,  though  now  it  is  of  the  smallest  My  illness  has  made  me 
shorter  by  a  fool ;  my  head  is  somewhat  too  big  considering  loy 
height,  and  my  face  is  full  enough,  in  all  conscience,  for  me  itho 
carries  such  a  skeleton  of  a  body  about  him,  I  have  hair  enough  Ml 
my  head  not  to  need  a  wig,  and  many  grey  hairs,  too,  in  spite  of  tk 
proverb.'  My  sight  is  good  enough,  though  my  eyes  are  large  aid 
of  a  blue  colour  ;  and  one  of  them  is  sunk  deeper  into  my  head  ihin 
the  other,  because  I  lean  on  that  side.  My  nose  is  well  enou^i 
my  teeth,  which  in  days  of  yore  looked  like  a  row  of  square  pearls, 
are  now  like  bo.xwood,  and  will  very  soon  be  of  a  slate  colour.  I 
have  lost  one  tooth  and  a  half  on  the  left  side  and  two  and  a  lulf 
precisely  on  the  right,  and  I  have  two  more  standing  somewhat  oat 
of  their  ranks  ;  my  legs  and  thighs  had  at  first  the  shape  of  an  obtuse 
angle,  then  of  a  right  angle,  and  finally  of  an  acute  angle ;  my  ihigiis 
and  body  form  another,  and  my  head  being  continually  bent  owt  my 
stomach  makes  me  look  more  or  less  like  a  Z,  My  arms  are  shrivelleduii 
as  well  as  my  legs,  and  my  fingers  as  well  as  my  arms  \  in  short,  I  in* 
living  epitome  of  human  misery.  This,  as  near  as  I  can  give,  ia  0/ 
shape.  Since  I  have  got  so  far,  I  will  even  tell  you  something  ofo)' 
disposition.  Under  llie  rose  be  it  spoken,  courteous  reader,  I  do  id" 
only  to  swell  the  bulk  of  my  book,  at  the  request  of  the  booksellffi 
the  poor  dog,  it  seems,  being  afraid  that  he  should  be  a  loser  byll"* 
impression  if  he  did  not  give  the  courteous  reader  enough  forh* 
money.  Were  it  not  for  this,  this  digression  would  be  of  no  inot* 
purpose  ihan  a  thousand  others.  Eut  to  our  consolation  let  it  h^ 
said  that  ours  is  not  the  first  age  in  which  people  play  the  fooli  i>W' 
of  complaisance,  without  reckoning  the  follies  they  commit  of  th^ 
own  accord. 

"  I  was  always  a  little  hasty  in  temper,  a  little  given  to  good  li^inS' 
and  rather  lazy.  I  frequently  call  my  servant  a  nincompoop,  ^  ' 
liltle  after  address  him  as  'sir.'     I  hate  no  man,  and  could  wish'" 

'  The  otiEinal  has  "  J'cn  »i  bciueoup  de  blancs, 
to  wb»(  piovcib  Scairon  refers  1  have  not  been  able  to  diteoro'. 


epii  dn  prarcriajy^ 


Paul  Scarron.  365 

the  world  had  the  same  feelings  for  me ;  I  am  as  blithe  as  a  bird 
when  I  have  money — and  should  be  much  more  so  were  I  in  health ; 
I  am  merry  enough  in  company,  and  am  quite  happy  when  I  am 
alone  ;  I  bear  all  my  ills  pretty  patiently.  And  now,  as  I  humbly 
imagine  the  porch  to  be  big  enough  for  the  house,  it  is  high  time  for 
me  to  conclude." 

About  the  year  1648  another  versified  comedy  of  this  "living 
epitome  of  human  misery,"  "  L'H^ritier  Ridicule,"  made  its  appear- 
ance, which  is  said  to  have  pleased  the  youthful  king,  Louis  XIV., 
so  much,  that  he  had  it  performed  twice  in  one  day.  This  same 
year  Scarron's  friend.  Mile,  de  Hauiefort,  married  the  Marshal  de 
Schomberg,  and,  of  course,  out  came  our  poet  with  an  epithalamium. 
He  also  published  between  the  years  1643  and  165 1  various  collec- 
tions of  his  poetical  epistles,  and  his  other  rhythmical  productions, 
amongst  which  some  drinking  songs,  in  verses  of  thirteen  and 
fourteen  syllables,  and  some  eating  songs,  of  which  Scarron  seems  to 
have  been  the  inventor,  attracted  notice  by  their  novelty.  The 
Prince  of  Orange,  who  about  this  time  visited  France,  sent  to  our 
deformed  poet  some  pecuniary  assistance,  and  received  in  return  an 
ode  in  which  Scarron  lavishes  his  thanks  profusely,  and  when  later 
on  the  prince  died  he  wrote  some  "Stances  H^roiques"  on  his 
death. 

During  the  wars  and  rebellion  of  the  Fronde,  chiefly  directed 
against  Cardinal  Mazarin,  many  pamphlets  appeared,  in  prose  as 
well  as  in  verse,  all  aimed  at  the  statesman  then  at  the  helm  of 
the  Gallic  ship  of  state.  One  of  the  bitterest  and  most  scurrilous  of 
these  was  "La  Mazarinade,"  supposed  to  have  been  written  by 
Scarron,  in  which  the  cardinal  is  no  longer  called  "greater  than 
Caesar,"  as  he  was  in  the  opening  of  "Typhon"  ;  but  in  which  it  is 
distinctly  stated  that  "  mon  Jule  n'est  pas  Cdsar."  When,  however, 
Mazarin,  a  couple  of  years  later,  returned  triumphantly  to  Paris,  the 
poet  clearly  saw  the  error  of  his  ways,  admitted  that  the  cardinal 
had  been  "  autrefois  Tobjet  de  Tinjuste  satire,"  and  declared  his 
regret  in  having  attacked  him,  above  all  for  his  own  sake,  for : — 

Pour  le  malheur  des  temps,  et  surtout  pour  le  mien, 
J'ai  doutc  d'un  merite  aussi  pur  que  le  iiicn. 

He  even  went  so  far  as  to  write  to  some  gentleman  connected 
with  the  Court,  but  whose  name  has  not  transpired,  that  he  had 
never  dared  to  write  to  Her  Majesty  and  make  his  innocence  appear ; 
but,  continues  he,  "you  gave  me  to  understand  that  the  Queen  haa 
asked  for  some  of  my  plays,  which  makes  me  flaU^x  icv^%^\  ^Occ^x  ^^ 


-66  The  Genibmams  Magazine. 

itiil  rentetobers  sadi  x  wretch  as  I  am.     Dnring  the  tnm 

Regency   creiythiBg,  good.  bad.  or  indiSerent,   that  was 

['am  passed  under  107  name  ;  %nd  this  abuse  6tiU  CODI 

vidutanding  all  the  pains  I  bave  taken  to  undeceive 

Some  insolent  libels  against  His  Enunence  were  fathered  on  me,  and 

perhaps  the  reason  of  it  was  because    anoiher   gentleman  o(  the 

purple,  bekn^i^  to  a  partf  opposed  to  His  Eminence,  was  pleased 

to  honour  me  with  his  friendship  " — oT  course  the  coadjutor  de  Kcu. 

then  in  di^race,  was  meant — "  but  I  was  known  and  loved  bjr  him 

from  my  youth,  long  before  his  reputation  b^an  to  decliite  at  Coua" 

He  beseeches  the  Queen   ''•  to   drop    her    indignation   a^inst  » 

unhappy  wretch  who  has  not  long  to  live."     His  request  wasgraattd, 

and  he  was  pardoned,  but  he  never  again   received  his  pensou, 

though  Fouiuet,  the  '"  surinten<'.ant  des  finances,"  as   soon  3i  fcc 

heard  of  his  loss,  allowed  our  paralysed  literary-  man  yearly  axtew 

hundred  livres,  for  which  he  received  no  other  reward  but  a  doien 

or  so  of  very  cleverly- written  letters,  and  the  dedication  of  a  raite 

long  but  smartly -written  butlestiue  ode  relating  the  adventures  ol 

Leander   and    Hero.      About   this   time   m-as  also  published  the 

"  Baionade,"  one  of  Scarron  s  violent  poetical  satires  directed  a^nt 

a  certain  financier  Baron. 

In     1651,   the    same    year    the   "  Mazarinade "    saw   the  HgWi 
appeared  the  first  part  of  a  work  on  which  now  Scanon's  reputl- 
tton  chiefly  rests— namely,  the  prose  romance,  "I^  Roman  Comiquc;' 
the   second    part    of  which   appeared    six   years    later,    whibl  ^ 
third  and  final   part,  published  after  our  author's  death,  was  ne»0 
written  by  him  at  all.     The  "  Roman   Comique,"   intended  B  * 
reaction  against  the  fashionable  novels   of  Mile,  dc   Scud^ri,  '^ 
of  Honortf    d'Urfe,  with  their  sham   shepherds  and  sheplierdes»e*i 
their  pretended   "  high   falutin "   sentiments,  and    their   euphuil" 
language,  often  went  to  the  other  extreme, — excessive  coarscne'* 
and  indelicacy.     It  describes  vividly  the  advenivires  of  a  troop  ^ 
strolling  players    in    the    (irovinces,    and    brings    before   us  hurW 
beings,  with  all  their  faults  and  virtues,  whose  actions  ate  reliW** 
in  simple  and  clear  language,  whilst  the  jocular  mood  of  the  autW 
suits  the  subjects  he  treats  of     It  remains  the  best  of  all  the  cod*'*' 
and  realistic  novel'*  of  the  seventeenth   century,  and  its  wrio^' 
personages,  such    as    the   lilipvitian,   cantankerous,   and  conceit^ 
Ragotin  ;  the  misanthropical  and  envious  actor  La  Rancune ;  •** 
scoundrelly  La  Rapinifere  ;  the  pretentious  poet  Roquebrune ;  i_*^ 
amorous  Le  Destin  and  Li!onard  ;  the  tender-hearted  young  Udi*J 
De  I'Etoilc  and  Ang^lique  ;  the  sorely-tried  Mrs.  La  Cavenaj**" 


Paul  ScarroH.  367 

the  enormous  Mrs.  Bouvillon,  are  considered  typical  characters  up  to 
the  present  day.  Scarron  might  have  seen  some  of  these  strolling 
players  during  his  residence  in  the  town  of  Mans,  for  it  is  now 
generally  supposed  that  he  wanted  to  represent  the  actors  of  a  well- 
known  provincial  troop,  who  travelled  about  the  country  under  the 
guidance  of  a  certain  Jean  Baptiste  de  Monchaingre,  better  known 
as  Filandre,  and  who  visited  Mans  whilst  our  author  dwelt  there. 
Four  stories,  freely  imitated  from  the  Spanish,  are  also  interpolated  in 
the  "  Roman  Comique,"  which  novel  may  have  been  suggested  by  a 
book,  "  The  Amusing  Journey,"  first  published  in  1603,  \vritten  by 
the  Spanish  actor  Augustin  de  Roxas,  and  containing  dialogues 
between  three  of  his  fellow-comedians  and  himself  relating  their 
adventures  and  experiences;  though  the  two  novels  completely 
differ  in  subject  and  treatment  The  three  parts  of  the  "  Roman 
Comique"  have  been  "  rendered  into  English  by  Mr.  Thomas  Brown, 
Mr.  Savage,  and  others,"  whilst  an  abbreviated  translation  of  the  same 
work  by  Oliver  Goldsmith  was  published  after  the  latter's  death. 

Our  little  **  epitome  of  all  human  miseries  "  seems  seldom  to  have 
been  well  off,  for  he  was  always  asking  for  something  or  other  in  his 
letters  and  in  his  verses,  while  his  friend  Segrais,  the  secretary  to  Mile. 
de  Montpensier,  admits  that  "  nobody  ever  wrote  more  dedications 
than  Scarron  did,  but  he  received  money  for  them.  M.  de  Bellifevre 
sent  him  a  hundred  crowns  because  he  had  dedicated  a  certain  book  to 
him,  and  I  brought  him  fifty  from  Mile,  de  Montpensier  for  a  wretched 
comedy  (this  comedy  was  the  'Ecolier  de  Salamanque')  he  dedicated 
to  her."  Nothing  came  amiss  to  Scarron,  and  he  accepted  everything 
gratefully ;  and  whether  it  was  money,  an  abbey,  firewood,  books,  a 
carriage,  pies,  cheese,  poultry,  and  even  puppies,  was  always  profuse 
in  his  thanks.  If  any  other  literary  man  of  the  period  asked  for  any- 
thing, or  was  dedicating  one  of  his  works  to  some  nobleman,  Scarron 
was  the  first  to  make  fun  of  him,  but  then  it  must  be  admitted  that 
when  our  author  begged  he  did  so  in  a  jocular  way  and  without  any 
meanness.  In  extenuation  of  his  unceasing  applications  for  relief 
might  be  brought  forward  his  terrible  bodily  sufferings  and  the  dreadful 
position  in  which  he  was  placed.  And  yet  Scarron  never  lost  his 
good  temper,  and  though  now  and  then  he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings 
in  prose  as  well  as  in  poetry.,  he  could  not  be  wholly  serious.  In  one 
of  his  letters  to  de  Marigny,  already  quoted,  he  acknowledges  that  he 
"  might  have  lived  a  comfortable  life,  though  somewhat  obscure ;  but 
when  these  cruel  thoughts  come  into  my  head,  I  swear  to  you,  dear 
friend  of  mine,  that  if  it  had  been  lawful  to  make  away  with  oneself, 
I  would  long  ago  have  rid  myself  of  all  my  miseries  by  taking  a  stiff 


368  The  GiintUmiins  Magazint.\ 

dose  of  poison,  and  I  believe  I  shall  be  forced  to  do  it  itkA^ 
And  then  our  author  breaks  out  in  poetry — 

Thtse  cruL-l  pains,  ncilh  which  I  C'oan, 

Vi'aulii  force  compluata  fiom  hearts  or  sla 

I  cannot  hope  to  find  repose. 

Till  death  my  n'Ckried  eyes  does  close. 

Why  should  ihoie  cruel  stars  delight 

On  me  lo  shed  ihelr  tesiless  spite  ? 

'Tis  plain,  1  sulTer  for  the  crime 

or  Irespnssing  in  wicked  rhyme. 

Hoivcver,  liis  kindliness  of  lieart  never  forsook  him,  and  bl| 

of  his  own  troubles  he  aln-ays  did  5  good  turn  whenever  he  coali 
II1US  we  find  him  writing  to  his  friend  La\ardin,  bishop  of  MBft 
"  that  he  would  do  well  to  give  a  lift  to  his  friend  Menage,  who,  wiA 
all  his  merit  and  learning,  has  got  but  little  preferment  in  the  Churchf    | 
another  time  he  begs  the  Duke  of  Reli,  a  brother  of  the  coadjutor,  to 
give  sanctuary  in  his  mansion  10  "ayounggenilenoanof  hisacquiio*' 
ance,  who,  though  only  twenty  years  of  age,  has  already  been  engaged 
in  a  score  of  duels,  killed  an  impudent  scoundrel  who  compelled  him 
to  fight,  cannot  obtain  his  pardon  except  in  Paris,  and  has  a  natur*' 
aversion  to  hanging.  ....  Moreover,  it  will  be  no  little  salis&ctio* 
to  you  to  have  protected  a  young  gentleman  of  his  merit  .  .  .  ■    ■ 
You'll  take  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world  to  see  him  snuff  iH* 
candles  with  a  pistol,  as  often  as  you  have  a  mind  to  see  this  pastime  j 
whilst  later  on  he  wrote  to  Fouquet  asking  him  to  do  "  a  small  Eivoui  to 
oneof  his  relatives  by  marriage,  who  had  always  been  a  faithful  servaO* 
to  the  king."     He  also  gave  shelter  in  his  house  lo  two  nuns  ihronrW 
on  the  wide  world  through  the  bankruptcy  of  their  convent,  withoo* 
of  whom.  Celeste  Palaiseau,  he  had  been  in  love  in  his  youth, »«'' 
who,  through  his  influence,  became  aftenvards  prioress  of  an  abbq"  •* 
Argenteuil. 

Scarron's  affliction  did  not  prevent  him  from  almost  daily  rectiV" 
ing  visitors,  such  as  his  friends  and  fellow- labourers  in  the  fields  *** 
literature,  Sarazin,  Boisrobert,  Tristan  rHermite,  Segrais,  de  Scud^ryi 
Marigny,  Pellisson,  Menage ;  the  artist  Mignard ;  the  marshal  d'Albre*  '• 
the  Dukes  de  Vivonne  and  de  Souvr^ ;  the  Counts  du  Lude,  de  Vi*" 
larceaux,  de  la  Sablifcre,  d'Elbbne,  Grammont,  and  Ch.^iiilon ;  the  Isiy 
aiithors  Madame  Deshouliferes  and  Mile,  de  Scud^ry;  the  )W*S 
nobleman's  general  favourites  Marion  Delormeand  Ninon  derEncto* 
whilst  such  ladies  of  undoubted  respectability  as  the  Duchess  de  1^*" 
diguiferes,  and  the  Countesses  de  la  Sabliere,  de  Scvign^,  de  laSu«*< 
de  Hautefort,  de  Bassompierre,  and  de  Brienne  now  and  then  ciD^ 
on  the  poor  paralysed  author.     Many  of  these  social  partiei  ^' 


'•?!»»/  Scarroa.  369 


on's  seem  to  bare  been  a  kind  of  picnic,  for  everybody  brought 
WMe  dish  or  other,  or  a  few  choice  bottles  of  vdne,  consumed  amidst 
vclj  sallies  and  bursts  of  laughter  ■  above  all,  when  the  master  of  the 
otiKwasin  a  good  humour  and  was  reading  some  of  his  verses, 
w3ulpng  in  lively  repartees  or  merry  quips,  or  relating  some  anec- 
lOtes  about  iheit  acquaintances ;  for,  as  he  says  himself  in  a  letter  to 
le  Vivonne  i  "  Our  neighbours  should  be  the  principal  subject  of  our 
onrersation,  or  rather  the  burden  of  the  song,  and  to  relieve  the  scene 
We  should  sometimes  tell  jovial  banqueting  stories,  without  which  all 
conversation  in  a  little  time  becomes  insipid  and  languishes." 

About  this  time  our  poor  literary  cripple  seems  to  have  seriously 

lought  of  going  to  America  or  to  the  West  Indies,  to  try  if  a  warmer 

limatc  would  not  cure  him,  as  it  was  said  to  have  benefited  several 

erions  of  his  acquaintance  ;  and  he  even   thought  of  forming  a 

ompany  for  the  colonisation  of  these  far-away  countries,  of  which 

he  offered  the  management  to  Segrais,  then  only  about  twenty-six, 

butof  a  very  steady  character.       In  a  letter  to  his  friend  Sarazin 

StXTon  says   "  that  he  was  going  lo  set  sail  for  America  within  a 

•nonlh;  and  that  what  strengthened  him  in  this  resolution  was  his 

^inj;  eternally  plagued  in  town  with  a  new  crop  of  fools  who  call 

Ihtmselves  Platonisls."     Then,  after  staling  his  reasons  for  leaving 

fnnce,  he  finishes   by  saying  :  "  I  liave  been  tempted  to  take  a 

thousand  crowns'  worth  of  shares  in  our  new  West  India  Company, 

*hich  is  going  to  establish  a  colony  within  three  degrees  of  the  line, 

banks  of  the  Orillana  and  the  Orinoco.     So  farewell,  France ; 

'ftwell,  Paris ;  farewell,  ye  she-devils  in  the  shape  of  angels  ]  good-bye, 

J*  Manages,  ye  Sarazins,  and  ye  Marignys.     I  take  my  leave  of  bur- 

■W^ue  verse,  of  comedies  and  comical  romances,  to  go  to  a  happy 

innate,  where  there  arc  no  affected  coxcombs,  no  canting  rascals,  no 

■quisition,  no  rheumatism  to  cripple  any  one,  nor  no  confounded  wars 

'to  starve  me."    This  latter  remark  about  the  "wars"  seems  to  be  an 

"lUsion  to  the  troubles  of  the  Fronde,  which  did  not  end  till  the  year 

'*53'    But  poor  Scarron  did  not  leave  France  after  all,  for  an  event 

"Ppened  as  romantic  as  any  he  ever  described  in  the  "  Tragi-comic 

•^les,"  chiefly  borrowed  from  the  Spanish,  and  of  which  Moli^rc  made 

. ■  for  his  "Tartuffe,"     Scarron  was  very  anxious  to  obtain  all 

**  information  he  could  about  the  West  Indies,  and  one  day  one  of 
"^  Neighbours,  the  Baroness  de  Ncuillant,  introduced  him  to  a  certain 
^'^'^ig  lady  about  seventeen,  Fran^oise  d'Aubign^,  who  had  been 
flight  up  in  Martinique.  She  was  the  grand- daughter  of  that  well- 
^^*n  literary  and  militant  champion  of  the  Protestant  cause  in  France 
^l^ring  the  sixteenth  century ;  the  firm  friend  of   Henri   IV.,   of 


I  370  The  GeniUmaiCs  Alagazine. 

Theodore"  Agrippa  d'Aubignd ;  had  only   lately  become  a  Romiia 
Calhotic,  and  lost  her  mother  ;  was  known  in  society  as  "Ujeune 
Indienne,"  and  was  in  a  position  not  far  removed  from  the  most  abjcci 
poverty.    Scairoo  took  compassion  on  this  unfortunate  girl,  dcpeniknt 
on  an  avaricioas  and  cantanherous  relative,  and  ia  order  to  provide 
her  with   a  shelter  this  hopelessly  paralysed  and  deformed  cripple, 
twenty-five  years  older  than   herself,    offered    her  his   hand,  which 
proposal,  after  some  hesitation,  she  accepted-     They  were  manied 
about  1652,  and  it  is  reported  that  Scatron  should  have  said:  "1 
won't  commit  any  follies,  she  may  be  sure  of  that;  but  III  teach 
her  to  commit  some."     In  the  marriage  contract  he  recognised  as      J 
the  portion  she  brought  him  "two  very  large  and  very  expressive 
eyes,  a  remarkably  fine  bust,   two  beautiful  hands,  and  a  good  deil 
of  intelligence ; "  whilst  to  his  notary  he  declared  he  would  leave  h« 
at  his  death,  besides  a  sum  of  twenty-five  thousand  francs,  the  otdi-      [ 
nary  heirloom  of  a  poet — "  imraortalit)'."    He  did  not  know  thil  his 
prophecy  would  ever  become  tnie,  and  never  could  have  thoughl, 
amidst  all  the  fantasies  and  burlesque  freaks  of  his  imagination,  that 
twenty-four  years  after  his  death  his  staid  and  se rio us- minded  wido* 
would  become  the  wife  of  Louis  XIV.,  the  proudest  of  all  monarchal 
the  most  infatuated  with  his  royal  prerogati\-es;  and  that  hernim« 
should  become  graven  on  the  perennial  tablets  of  history  as  Madam* 
de  Maintenon. 

His  marriage  seems  to  have  benefited  him  greatly  from  a  socia-^ 
as  well  as  from  a  Uterary  point  of  view,  for  the  company  who  visited  tl»* 
poor  cripple  adopted  manners  somewhat  more  refined  and  becani^ 
more  guarded  in  its  language,  whilst  the  expressions  in  his  own  writing* 
show  less  coarseness;  though  it  must  be  admitted  that  this  gteai^* 
delicacy  was  not  immediately  visible,  for  thebest-known  of  his  comedie* 
in  verse,  "  Don  Japhet  d'Arm^nie,"  brought  out  about  a  year  after  bi^ 
marriage,  though  truly  comical,  is  also  very  licentious  and  gross,  an  ^3 
could  not  be  acted  as  it  was  written  at  the  present  time.  And  yet  "*  * 
was  dedicated  to  the  King  in  a  preface,  a  model  of  a  begging  peiiiio*^ 
without  loo  much  humiliation,  and  which  ends  thus  :  "  Sire,  I  «i^* 
endeavour  to  persuade  Your  Majesty  it  would  not  be  very  WTong  *** 
assist  me  a  little,  for  if  you  did  assist  me  a  litde  I  would  be  tno*'*^ 
jovial  than  I  am  ;  and  if  I  were  more  jovial  th.in  I  am  I  would  wtite 
lively  comedies  ;  if  I  wrote  lively  comedies  Your  Majesty  would  l>^ 
amused  by  them,  and  if  you  were  amused  the  money  bestowed  oo  w^ 
would  not  be  lost  All  this  le.ids  to  such  an  inevitable  conclusion  ih^* 
1  imagine  I  should  be  convinced  by  it  if  I  were  a  great  king  insi^ao 
of  being  what  I  am,  a  poor  wretched  creature." 

In  the  writing  of  complimentary  letters  Scarron  was  quite   * 


Paul  Scarron.  371 

adept.  The  very  year  of  his  marriage  he  wrote  to  the  coadjutor 
de  Retz,  just  elected  a  cardinal  :  "  My  Ix)rd,  you  have  made  me 
rich  in  spite  of  fortune,  by  being  made  a  cardinal  in  spite  of 
your  enemies.  I  ventured  all  I  was  worth  in  the  world  " — Scarron 
evidently  speaks  here  of  the  loss  of  his  pensions  granted  to  him 
by  the  Queen  and  Cardinal  Mazarin — "so  that  you  should  be 
advanced  to  that  dignity ;  and  if  I  have  to  do  with  gentlemen  of 
honour,  I  shall  be  worth  half  as  much  again  as  I  was  before.  I 
pray  Heaven  you  may  be  able  to  say  the  same ;  and  let  His 
Providence  bring  it  about  as  He  shall  think  it  most  convenient" 
Four  years  later  he  sent  some  of  his  works  to  Christina,  Queen  of 
Sweden,  who  was  then  in  France,  and  had  been  to  visit  him  ;  and 
after  thanking  her  for  the  honour  bestowed  on  him,  he  continues  : 
"  If  I  were  able  to  ramble  from  one  country  to  another,  I  should 
immediately  set  up  as  a  little  Orlando  for  your  sake ;  and  though  I 
could  not  with  one  single  stroke  of  my  sword  fell  so  many  thumping 
trees,  nor  commit  so  many  ravages  as  my  brother  hero  in  Ariosto, 

yet  my  follies  should  be  more  amusing I  have  made  use  of  the 

permission  you  gave  me  by  becoming  a  gallant  of  no  small  con- 
sequence, as  I  serve  the  greatest  queen  ever  in  existence  whilst  the 
romantic  blusterer  just  mentioned  served  only  an  imaginary  queen. 
'Twas  well  Your  Majesty  gave  me  this  permission,  for  otherwise  it  is 
ten  to  one  I  might  have  taken  it ;  and  if  you  had  refused  it  to  me,  you 
might  have  found  yourself  disobeyed  by  one  who  would  not  act  thus 
on  any  other  occasion  whatever,  though  it  should  cost  him  his  life." 

Scarron's  comedies  in  verse,  "  L'Ecolier  de  Salamanque,"  in  which 
for  the  first  time  the  roguish  servant  Crispin  made  his  appearance 
on  the  French  stage,  '*  Le  Gardien  de  Soi-meme,"  and  "  Le  Marquis 
Ridicule,"  had  been  very  successful ;  his  **  Gazette  Burlesque,"  which 
appeared  whenever  his  illness  left  him  any  leisure  ;  and  his  "  Mar- 
quisate  de  Quinet,"  as  he  laughingly  called  the  sums  he  received  from 
his  publisher  Quinet,  brought  him  a  steady  income,  and  yet,  in  spite 
of  all  this,  of  the  number  of  presents  sent  to  him,  and  though  his 
young  wife  managed  his  household  as  economically  as  she  could,  he 
was  often  straitened  in  his  means.  His  relatives  having  discovered 
he  was  a  favourite  with  the  courtiers,  gave  him  back  some  of  his 
father's  inheritance ;  and  he  sold  part  of  it,  a  property  near  Amboise, 
for  twenty-five  thousand  francs,  whilst  his  prebend  at  Mans  was  bought 
for  a  thousand  crowns  by  a  former  servant  of  Manage  who  wished  to 
enter  Holy  Orders ;  he  had  also  an  interest  in  a  kind  of  parcels 
delivery  company,  called  "  Entreprise  de  D^charge  et  de  Transport," 
and  in  1657  even  obtained  permission  to  erect  a  laboratory  for  the 


The  Gentietnatis  Magazitu. 

making  of  the  philosopher's  stone,  but  he  seems  never  lo  have  lound 
it,  fot  he  had  to  work  hard  for  a.  Uvii^  amidst  his  increasing  infiimities. 
In  a  letter,  written  probablf  to  Pellisson,  he  acknowledges  he  derircd 
his  "  chief  subsistence  from  the  theatre,  but  the  writing  of  ptays  is 
confoundedly  fatiguing,  and  docs  not  pay  when  a  man  spends  a  lot 
of  lime  and  thought  on  them.  ...  A  man  can  scarcely  enjoy  either 
repose  or  tranquilliiy  when  his  hea<ih  is  jusi  as  bad  as  his  affairs  arc, 
.  .  .  Iscniplenot toconfessthatlfindmygaietyperceptiblydinuimh, 
because,  like  an  unhappy  vrorkman,  I  am  forced  to  write  verses  to 
gel  my  daily  bread."  To  his  friend  dc  Xfarigny  he  says :  "  I  cannot 
write  to  you  with  that  liveliness  I  would  like ;  my  hand  rebels  against 
my  inclination ;  for,  I  am  son}'  to  say,  I  have  been  plagued  with  a 
cruel  fit  of  the  gout  this  last  month,  as  if  I  had  not  miseries  enough 
before  to  torment  me.  All  1  can  do  under  this  fresh  indisposition 
and  under  these  other  calamities  with  which  my  ill  fortune  per^culet 
me,  is  to  swear  as  heroically  and  with  as  good  a  grace  as  any  man  in 
KraDce.  ...  I  am  sometimes  so  very  mad  that  if  all  the  furies  of  rfie 
infernal  regions  came  to  fetch  me  away,  I  believe,  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart,  I  should  almost  go  and  meet  them  half  way." 

Scarron  had  his  detractors,  as  any  literary  man  will  ha\-e,  in  every 
habitable  quarter  of  the  globe.     But  he  himself  sajs ' ;  "  An  unhappy 
ivretch  such  as  I  am,  who  never  stirs  out  of  his  room,  can  have  no 
knowledge  either  of  men  or  things  except  such  as  he  obtains  second- 
hand from  others.  .  .  .  This  is  a  great  disadvantage  to  an  artist  who 
ought  lo  haie  his  imagination  filled  with  a  great  number  of  ideas, 
which  are  only  to  be  obtained  in  conversaiion,  or  by  seeing  the 
world.  .  .  A  man  grows  jusl  as  rusty  by  remaining  too  long  in  a 
room  as  he  does  when  living  too  long  in  the  country."     Moreover, 
he  might  have  brought  forward  that  the  power  of  obsen-ation  becomes 
strongly  developed  in  a  man  who  is  compelled  always  to  remain  in 
his  room,  for  the  peailiarities  in  dress  and  character  of  every  visitor       | 
become  indelibly  impressed  on  his  mind,  whilst  his  thoughts,  of  ne-       ( 
cessily,  continually  dwell  on  the  same  subjects.     His  room  becomcs^^ 
a  world  to  him  ;    and  in  this  microcosm  he  notes  down  all  tlu^^ 
passes;  his  perspicuity  is  sharpened  by  circumstances;  the  range  "-     ^ 
his  ideas  may  not  be  vast,  but  he  completely  masters  them.    Tli_..^i 
danger  is  that  the  observer,  sedentary  by  compulsion,  may  look  wit-^Tl , 
a  jaundiced    eye   on  the  actors  moving  on  his  petty  stage;  b*— « 
Scarron's  mood  was  generally  of  the  merriest,  and,  therefore,  toir^y 
thinking,  he  has  undervalued  his  powers,  which  in  several  descriplio-wai 
of  character  in  the  "  Roman  Coraiquc"  remind  the  reader  of  Hono»^ 
de  Balzac. 

'  In  a  IcUer  lo  Scgrjia. 


Paul  Scayron.  5~_5 

One  of  the  few  pleasures  left  to  poor,  wrelcbed  Scanon  was  good 
ifin|,  to  which,  according  to  his  own  description,  he  was  always 
JKwhat  addicted,  and  he  freely  gave  himself  up  to  it,  Only  about 
w  months  before  his  death  '  he  wrote  and  thanked  the  Marsha! 
ffAibret  for  having  sent  him  "  a  great  pre,  which  was  admirable,  and 
■wne  excellent  cheeses,  which  deserve  no  less  commendation,  being 
Bgood  as  it  is  possible  for  cheeses  made  of  mill;  of  any  kind  to  be;" 
•hila  to  the  Duke  d'Elbeuf  he  sends  a  "  thousand  thanks"  for  all 
tte  pies  presented  to  him,  "  and  particularly  for  the  last  one  just  now 
auived,"  which  "  we  shall  open  to-morrow  with  more  pomp  and 
•oltmnity  than  lawyers  display  when  the  courts  open.  Messieurs  de 
^mmne,  de  Malha,  de  Chaiilbn,  d'Elbtne,  and  myself  will  be 
"•ere;  we  shall  drink  j*our  health  most  gloriously,  and  the  honour  of 
IT  remembrance  shall  fully  comfort  me  for  the  absence  of  Madame 
**[ron,  who  has  just  gone  out  with  Madame  de  Montchevreuil." 
^*e  following  poetical  invitation  which  he  sent  to  the  painter 
''Piard,'  the  friend  of  Molifcre,  will  also  prove  tliat  Scarron  did  not 
o  lie  life  of  an  anchorite  :  — 

Please,  Mignard,  eoine  on  Sunday  here, 
Wilh  good  iiralh  we'll  begin  our  cheer  ; 
Then  a  made  ili&h  or  two  an'l  please, 
Roast  meat,  dessert  and  creamy  cheese. 
We'll  moisten  all  wilh  first-rale  wine ; 
And  lighl,  in  this  small  room  of  niinc, 
A  rousing  lire  to  l)anish  cold  ; 
Drink  the  most  luscious  wine  e'er  sold, 
Eat  fniits  prepared  in  amlier  stew  ;  ' 
And  ni  be  in  good  temper  too  1 
^ren  company  now  and  then  palled  on  him,  for  he  writes  to 
"U^ujf.  'igQ^e  honourable  peers  come  to  see  mc  in  my  chamber, 
'        as  people  went  formerly  to  see  an  elephant,  out  of  curiosity  ;  or 
/^^  to  spend  an  afternoon  with  me,  when  they  are  disappointed  in 
**■  visits,  or  have  nothing  else  to  do."     Yet  to  live  without  society 
, ,  *  impossible  to  our  literary  cripple,  for,  only  a  short  time  before 
*3cath,  he  said  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  de  Vivonne  r  "  Mine  is  the 
..    y  house  in  France  where  the  merriest  tales  are  to  be  heard.  .  .  , 
"^  health   is  often  drunk  among  us,  and  d'Elb&ne  rails  at  you 
^n  he  and  I  are  at  our  kickshaw  repa^.v  ...  As  for  me,  I  find 
^^elf  daily  decline  and  go  down  the  hill  much  faster  than  I  could 
^^ire.     1  feel  a  thousand  pangs,  or  rather  a  thousand  devils,  in  ir.y 
^^s  and  legs," 
*  December  ; 


'»*., 


'  Pierre  Mipnord  diJ  not 
Ambergris  nas  ihen  a  favouriie  peifume,  and  ni 


n  from  Italy  until  1657. 
uiy  culinary 


;"4  '^'^^  GentUmatC s  Magazifu. 

His  yoor.g  wife  behaved  admirably  to  her  wretched  and  suffering 
':;usband  ;  ar.d  no  Ireirh  of  sLinder  was  whispered  against  her,  oral 
least  believed,  durir.^  the  ei^iht  years  she  passed  with  him.  But  the 
end  drew  near.  Scarron  azain  became  ill ;  perhaps  he  seemed  a  little 
worse  than  usual,  yet  he  kept  his  merry  mood  to  the  last,  and  said  to 
his  triends  who  were  s^ind:^^  in  tears  around  his  bed  :  "My good 
fellow?,  ycu  will  never  c:^*  as  much  for  my  death  as  I  have  made  you 
shed  tears  wl:h  lauj^hter  vrhils:  I  was  alive.*  With  his  dying  breath 
he  expressevi  his  grai;:uie  :o  his  wife  for  all  her  care  and  kindness. 
and  a:  :he  same  rirr.e  his  heartf;:!!:  sorrow  he  had  nothing  to  leave 
her.  Ther..  .;f:or  having  recommended  her  warmly  to  his  friend 
d'ElVcr^e.  he  ^.iv-  up  the  ^hos%  according  to  some,  in  the  beginning  of 
Oc-.vver  I,  j^.  Vu:  accorcir.^  :o  his  friend  Segrais,  in  the  month  of 
Tur.e  of  :he  same  vear.  The  latter  savs  :  "Scarron  died  whilst  I 
\k  a>  away  w  /.h  :h :  Kir.^;.  who  was  zoLng  :o  be  married:  and  I  had  heard 
norhir.g  ,*.:  all  a*,  .-^u:  hl<  cea:h-  The  tirs:  Aing  I  did  when  I  returned 
10  :owu  wus  •-?  ^>?  aui  si^  h"::y  Eu:  when  I  arrived  at  his  door  I 
sa.v  <cu:e  ixv*:  v:arr.-  avjiy  :he  chair  on  which  he  always  sat  and 
uhijh  ha.:  ;u<:  Icvir.  5. "11  1:  was  a  large  arm-chair,  to  which  were 
f.\v;.:  >cr.u"  u-.t.  brackeis,  w>i:h  w^re  alr^-avs  pulled  out,  when  a  kind 
c:  mLIc  \^j.5  lj.:i  :r.  ::  :r.  i^hi^h  hj  wrj:e  and  are."  The  carrying 
aft~ay  c:"  :h<?  cr-yyl;^?  ch-ii:  :tll>  i:5  cwr.  tale.  It  also  appears  that 
r.-rj-  cf  :h;;  r:-::  fillo*'*  frieze?,  r.::  even  >L  d'Eliwne,  took  imm^ 
c:.i:e  r.ivs  :?  U5sii:  h.<  w.u:v.  :':r.  ::herwise,  she  would  probably 
r.o:  hi.e  >:1  i  h.>  ^.'cds  ar.i  cha-.i^Li  >?  s:os  after  his  death.  How- 
ever. >hi  ?>u:i*  :::Ui^  J'tir-var.-s  r>:c:.\ii  a  re:i5::a  from  the  Queeo, 
.ir.d  ;  ^vT.ty-:^:..:  via:?  1.::^:  le-.v.r.o  tho  -ife  cf  Louis  XIV.,  though 
ever:  thiu  •  .::'.ay>.  ir.  trir^  *■ ::  au:uie  l  :ujui  who  could  no  longer 
I e  J. :r. ;: 5^ . * .  J. <  >> ;  h e :? ^  1  f  i >  r : ■.  _ : i  i  : c  h a v e  <aii  she  mav  some- 
tL:uc>  hu". .  :.j:T;.::i=i  :!';  iluij  ?h-:  fy.ir.t  -»:U'  the  merry,  talkative, 
gx"*,: - : .  :u ;  sT re  J .  ? >: re ly- ri ; i.  y  •:•: r  5-: u r: :  - .     Tw r  cc med: es  and  some 

.......?..«.'«.  ^  — ._' >  ■•*-•  _.  -..-.>..».•«.  «-.^.  ,..?  ■..ia...,  v_^_2^  cw^cc  ne  nau 

a..x — •    * —  ...?    ■• *.:-.     ni    .;;..   ^c.jic   Iiim   aj  own 

>  .,a^.    .  ^  ..i   - .  - .-   ,  -?- -.■>  ..c  : .  li-  ^ c.  wz.-\.ji  we  ttve  vx  tnc 

v.:  " ■--  ."c  y  ■-  :   : .  .■  -^  ,  _    :.  '.\':;  y  .7  T-rr?  :*vi2  cttt  knew  ; 

t:  *..■.■-:■,:  "".   .,'  1.  >   1  •  ■-::  A  '■-:..-i::i  iiri^is  i*  K:aerei  Ctfiih 

A'-i.::  ^-^  .■-■  :<,••:.  \  'i  •  :.  i.-i  ;■  :c  ::  L:ii  he  biLl^  a£«3. 

*f  jiaou.-.*:.  :■,■  *^:  .-   :.  ."  •  '::..:.  ."*'  yi?j^;:  r-.  ?reii  lew.  :rtad  li^t; 

ta  •  ■  ■  •  « 

HSNii:  VAX 


375 


OUR  LAST  MEETING  AT  TEW, 


\^  I  ^HE  following  speaks  for  itself.  It  apparently  dates  from 
X  September  1643,  proceeds  from  one  very  intimate  with  Lord 
Falkland,  and  is  addressed  to  a  lady.  Ink  has  been  spilt  over  the 
opening  words  and  superscription ;  the  latter  part  is  torn  off.  With 
a  few  alterations  in  spelling  and  punctuation  I  give  it  as  it  is.] 

....  beyond  measure  to  me  grievous.  My  lord  Falkland  is 
dead.  He  was  shot  upon  his  horse  only  three  days  gone,  while 
leading  his  troop  in  a  crack  of  a  skirmish  with  the  Parliamentaries  at 
Newbury — small  occasion  of  mischief  so  great ;  and  now  things  are 
so  black  with  me,  I  have  no  heart  to  abide  in  this  God-abandoned 
kingdom  any  more.  You  knew  him  a  little,  and  more  from  me,  but 
to  me  he  hath  left  a  blank  that  will  not  be  filled  by  any  living  man. 
The  last,  and  for  that  part  the  only,  time  you  saw  him,  he  was  all  of 
a  brightness  and  admiration  like  a  forenoon  of  spring, — that  day  we 
went  oiit  to  Tew  with  the  merry  company  from  Oxford  and  you 
jocosely  called  them  the  Witanagemote  for  their  ivisdom  •:  and  in  the 
twilight,  you  remember,  while  some  of  us  sat  under  the  limes,  Sir 
Edmund  Waller  sung  his  newest  song  to  the  ladies,  "  Go,  lovely  rose," 
when  some  one  made  pretence  to  run  off,  exclaiming  he  had  abashed 
the  nightingale  to  silence.  That  was  a  happy  time  we  had  at  Tew, 
with  Dr.  Chillingworth  and  Dr.  Sheldon  and  Mr.  Earle  and  Mr. 
Hyde  for  continual  company  the  most  lively  and  agreeable,  besides 
many  more  :  but  if  you  had  observed  him  from  the  time  he 
received  summons  to  attend  the  king,  how  his  days  seemed  to  grow 
continually  darker  and  wintrier,  and  seen  at  last  how  he  knew  the 
end  was  come,  you  would  have  said  that  he  entered  aware  into  the 
shadow  of  death  and  during  the  last  black  years  was  passing  more 
deeply  into  it  till  he  finally  went  through  the  gates. 

God  forbid  I  should  have  any  feeling  save  loyal  affection  to  his 
noble  majesty,  yet  I  cannot  but  think  that  summons  came  to  my 
lord  Falkland  Hke  a  warr^mt  of  deaths  I  well  recollect  he  and  I  were 
conversing  together  alone  upon^  the  late  alarming  news  from  Scodand 
when  the  courier  rid  in  haste  up  the  avenue  and  delivered  the 
dispatch  into  my  lord's  hand.     Having  opened  it,  xVv^it  caxcv^  ^si\Q?Sk 


:^  Tit  C*mtlvmmw*s  Magmzziu, 

^  ^^^  a  faA^xbakKofaoedizt  baa  received  a  sub;  yclhe 
^^  MiA^b  M^  ^andbi^  '  I  ^mR  sttend  bts  majcsij^s  pleaurc 
^SB^taBA'^i<i^^HiK>Bq^  fats  ocdimrjr  composure,  satiiom 
M  «Me  m  ^MMO.  Bb^aal  iadeed  he  dtould  fiwi  dejection,  his 
)^a  faoBC  ^BB  ^iMm^  4fy«*"*  and  deujoyed  that  had  been 
a^^i^^  ^^K  H»  vo^  ^id  HBie,  of  ■omethiag  groiriag  oui  of  our 
eaana^iB  s  Tei^  Aot  ail^  ^*V  ■bo^c  the  Diueasonable  tumult 
if  Ae  IM^;  aid  Miv  >■  (o  be  caSipaed  and  Dodiing  o(  ui]' 
^iMiMoe  Ah^  iHiat  k  ■oe  De.  Ck2&i^watth's  book,  Itie  ttiU 
e  facnd  is  the  nnring  wind.  Bat  In^ 
,  saadAHK  hevriix  ■eigbeJ  upaa  bim  than  breilun^ 
■^^  ke  hd^t  ^n^^  n{A  all  the  eveniog,  idlba 
K  1h  <7ck  js  he  were  loofcmg  into  another  voHd 
I  bis  favourite  poet  Hr. 
nv;  ^  aot  to  cook  :  if  it  be  not  now,]ttil 
B  is  a&*    I  Defer  av  htm  his  right  self  tTiC 

B  dated  from  the  momiDgrf 
e  this  ghost  from  his  mind,  I 
s  ooald  before  his  leaving;  wtiidi 
B  at  Tew  was  on  the  Sundaj'' 
e  than  ever. 
E  bjr  the  B^ht  previous,  l>r.  ChiUingworlli 
»d  Mt  H;de  t«o  d^fS  bdore.     Mr.  Earle  and  Sir  Edmund  WlllR 
■  tiheS— day  bcfatc  sertice,  a  conjtinctionofoppo- 
a  wit  of  Dr.  Sheldon  and  caused  mucti 
pIcBaat  ■«)».    For  ihe  kaf^  had  pcoctned  him  a  new  laced  »ob 
dw^blct  aad  aew  feaihcts  to  bis  bead-gear,  and  looked  the  very  card 
ud  crieadat  oTgeBiiy,  vboOr  ofatecating  poor  Mr.  Earle  and  bei)« 
betkdehHa1ikeaBcaaperar-aoditoaslalcbceU&  For  Mr.  Earle, how- 
soever elegant  of  bhb^  vk  enr  ntost  n^ligeiit  of  body,  and  to-d>I 
scoMd  as  be  had  bestowed  vmmal  carelessness  upon  his  perso*> 
iwwbMBg  »  dingy  spider  come  oot  from  a  corner  of  the  Bodleian  w»* 
wiappt^etofhtswAbongaboiUhitn.  Everythingoflhatday  imprint^ 
ODrayBttDdasfromjreslerdajr,— aroostbeni^  day,  each  one  seeki* 
lo  oatnm  the  others  in  K*-eliness  of  humours,  nature's  self  unwilling 
let  us  be  sad,  but  shining  so  that  ewn  fragile  Mr.  Godolphin  forgot 
cough,  and  lady  Falkland  the  gracious  muse  of  our  company  movi^ 
among  us  like  a  spirit  of  loveliness  and  delight.     Ehtu  /ug.ues! 

After  senice  we  played  some  bowls, my  lord  Falkland  being  ve* 
ardent  m  the  sport,  and  along  with  Sir  Edmund  Waller  offcriDg  frtf 
chaUenge  to  any  pair  of  the  divines,—"  State  rising  .against  Chure* 


Our  Last  Meeting  at  Tew.  377 

a  grievous  bad  omen,"  Dr.  Sheldon  commented.  And  they  won,  toOp 
Dr.  Chillingworth  (who  plays  passing  well)  in  the  last  bout  forgetting 
his  bowls  for  a  bout  of  reasoning  whereinto  he  had  fallen  with  Dr. 
Morley  touching  Arminianisni.    Then  Sir  Edmund  Waller  asked  : — 

"  Will  you  define  me  Arminianism,  Dr.  Chillingworth  ?  for  I  have 
never  yet  been  able  to  discover  what  the  Arminians  hold." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Morley,  who  has  a  spice  of  Geneva  in  him,  took 
him  up  quickly  : — 

"  'Tis  easily  answered,  Sir  Edmund  :  the  Arminians  hold  all  the 
best  bishoprics  arid  deaneries  in  England." 

By  which  witty  sally  we  were  bowled  out  and  withdrew. 

I^ter  we  met  together  in  the  library,  where  Chillingworth  renewed 
his  two-handed  encounter  with  Morley  touching  the  leaven  of  the 
Arminians.  O  it  was  a  brave  sight  and  enough  to  give  one  health 
for  a  year  to  see  Chillingworth  at  it,  his  little  frame  dilate,  eye  on  fire, 
and  logic  flying  like  sword  of  flame,  yet  withal  so  courteous  and 
equable  in  his  zeal  that  it  was  well-nigh  impossible  to  resist  him  ;  no 
man  more  persuasive  than  he, — as  they  said  of  him  at  Oxford,  he 
would  have  converted  the  Grand  Turk  if  natural  reason  could  have 
done  it.  Mr.  Morley  maintained  the  reasonableness  of  the  Genevan 
doctrine,  but  so  mildly  that  he  was  like  one  sitting  on  the  ^%^  of  a 
stool.     Then  Chillingworth  answered  : — 

"  Granted  the  premisses, — yes  :  but  how  if  the  premisses  be 
denied  ?  For  my  part,  the  ground  of  opposition  I  have  to  that  you 
favour  is  the  same  that  was  like  to  bring  me  into  a  bushel  of  troubles 
with  my  lord  Archbishop, — the  time  you  know, — that  both  sides  bring 
me  a  bit  and  bridle  of  divine  right  to  curb  my  natural  judgment,  the 
one  of  Church,  the  other  of  Creed.  For  mine  own  share  I  must 
decline  to  be  bitted  and  bridled  in  this  matter  ;  no,  not  by  Archbishop 
Laud,  nor  yet  John  Calvin." 

Our  converse  dipped  deeper  into  controversy,  all  bearing  on  the 
matter  nearest  our  hearts,  the  trouble  of  the  times.  I  well  remember 
Dr.  Sheldon*s  anger  against  the  sectaries  and  his  scornful  likening 
of  them  to  that  spoken  of  by  Mr.  Spenser  in  his  poem  of  the  Faery 
Queene^ 

A  fihhy  cursed  spawn  of  serpents  small 
Deformed  monsters    .... 
Ten  thousand  kinds  of  creatures,  partly  ma^e 
And  partly  female. 

But  Chillingworth  felt  nothing  of  this. 

''  There  be  some  animals,  Dr.  Sheldon,  said  to  see  best  in  the 
dark,  an4  what  is  darkness  to  me  may  be  light  to  them.    But  shall 
foi..  ccLvin.    NO.  i8j2.  ;^^ 


373  The  GeHllemans  Magazine. 

1  set  to  cropping  the  bat's  cars  and  gUtting  the  owl's  bsik  beciUie 
its  visiun  is  not  the  same  with  mine?  Or,  Dr.  Moricy,  shon  oi 
corporeal  infliction,  sha!!  I  evi-O  say  the  bats  aod  owls  arc  damned?" 
For  ChilliDg worth,  no  man  more  than  he,  was  all  for  seltlemcnl 
by  reason,  and  though  he  could  (ling  a  hard  word  at  each  sect  ffhich 
must  bring  its  sahal  muni/um  of  a  credo  sealed  upon  its  (oiehc:il 
like  the  great  beast  in  the  Apcxulyjise,  I  never  saw  him  more  hopdul 
of  settlement  in  that  way.  But  my  lord  Falkland,  I  wist  DOl  li«i 
look  it  more  to  heart,  tlioagh  as  much  wishful  of  Ih.at  happy  end,  ind 
the  discussion,  I  saw,  was  darkening  over  him,  when  lady  Falllioi 
entered  after  a  playful  knock  (as  sometimes  was  her  woni),— i  Iiit 
blue-eyed  lady,  you  will  remember  her,  I  think,  her  beauty  only  Its 
engaging  than  her  manners,  a  little  taller  than  my  lord  Falkland  md 
set  in  a  happy  medium  betwixt  sportive  and  demure,  as  fuil  of  airiwi 
as  she  was  of  kindness.  She  wore  a  white  gown  and  held  in  b" 
hand  her  bonnet  by  the  ribbon  and  a  fresh  bud  of  a  rose,  with  to 
fair  hair  blown  somewhat  about  her  brow,  looking  hcBclf  lOs  t 
blending  of  fresh  roses  while  and  red  blooming  in  holy  health. 

"  O,  gentlemen !  you  do  wrong  yourselves  coopsd  Up  in  thii 
cloister  when  you  might  be  in  the  Grove  and  feci  the  living  ho^iitiH' 
wind  in  your  hair.  What !  have  you  left  Oxford  and  London  fot  llw 
better  air  and  come  to  breathe  the  air  of  a  libraij?  Nay,  you  w 
as  well  in  the  Dodleun  in  that  case.  You  sit  like  Palientt,  Sir 
Edmund,"  __^  __ 

Sir  Edmund  Waller  :  "  I  have  seen  Dr.  Chillingworlli  mSR 
his  way  into  the  heart  of  the  Great  Pyramid,  and  I  wait  for  to" 
issue  forth  again." 

Lady  Falkland  ;  "  Then  let  him  bring  no  mummies  with  fci* 
1  will  sec  you  out.  The  Grove  waits  for  you  ;  and  sec  you  fo^tlW* 
the  good  motto  on  the  dial-plate  about  the  flight  of  time." 

So  we  made  adjournment  to  the  patkj  which  nothing  pleased  "T 
lord  Falkland  more  than  lo  hear  spoken  of  as  the  Grove  ofl* 
Acadcmia,  there  being  a  measure  of  likeness  to  the  DialogoM  ^ 
Plato  in  the  conversations  we  had  many  times  held  there.  And  rfW 
I  have  seen  we  would  sil  ihere  or  walk  up  and  down  in  the  milil  *' 
of  o-ening  debating  some  point  of  interest,  till  the  simhadgW 
down,  and  the  shadoivs  gathered,  and  the  bats  began  lo  flitter  »W 
among  ihc  branches  over  our  heads— entering  it  now  for  theIa5!,W 
lime,  and  the  bats  hencefoTth  to  have  it  all  their  ovia. 

I  remember,  as  we  entered  under  a  patriarch  oak,  the  \X»t* 
wf  just  gietning  laced  themselves  into  the  surrounding  lin* 
'nound  \V,iIlcr  givingsi  [tation,  as  he  said,  to  the  godde»ofl^ 


Our  Last  Meeting  at  Tew.  379 

Grove  and  breaking  out  in  admiration  of  the  place, — "Socrates 
himself  might  have  here  stepped  a  coranto  with  Dame  Philosophy." 

Mr.  Earle  :  "What,  what,  Sir  Edmund;  does  divine  Philosophy 
move  to  the  light  measure  of  a  coranto  ?  " 

Sir  E.  Waller  :  "  Ah,  well !  to  the  measures  the  gods  tread,  and 
the  music  that  of  the  spheres,  if  you  will." 

Dr,  Sheldon  :  "  And  therein  Dame  Phibsophy  led  Socrates  a 
SDrrowful  enough  dance  at  the  last,  old  man." 

Dr.  CiuLLiNcwoRTH:  "  Not  the  safest  music  to  dance  to,  that 
of  the  gods,  if  one  will  have  scrip  and  comforL" 

Whereupon  Mr.  Hyde  :  "For  my  share  I  had  rather  hear  of  the 
fairies  dancing  among  us  again.  I  doubt  if  the  world  has  ever  been 
happy  since  they  left  us.  Ah,  what  a  glade,  this,  for  those  imps  to 
revel  in !  Many  a  May-day  gathering  they  have  had,  I  wis,  under 
these  same  boughs.  Cannot  you  conjure  them  back,  Sir  Edmund, 
with  your  poet's  wand  ?  " 

Sir  E.  Waller  :  "  We  poor  versers  have  lost  the  spell  since  Ben 
died,  Mr.  Hyde ;  the  Sad  Shepherd  saw  no  one  to  give  his  magic 
wand  to  and  so  he  took  it  with  him." 

Mr.  Hyde  :  "  Wo's  me  for  the  fairies  without  a  laureat !  " 

Sir  E.  Waller  :  "Alas,  poor  imps  !  they  have  been  persuaded 
to  join  the  malcontents  and  keep  Sabbath,  I  think." 

Mr.  Earle  :  "  Yes,  yes,  we  passed  some  of  them  on  our  way, 
with  docked  hair  and  mortified  looks  and  much  turning  up  of  eyes 
at  sight  of  your  doublet  and  feathers,  Sir  Knight :  alack,  that  fair 
imps  should  become  run-a-gate  hobgoblins." 

Sir  E.  Waller  :  "The  /at'r  of  them  I  thought  looked  as  they 
would  rather  be  back  in  elf-land  with  slips  of  moonbeam  in  their 
hair." 

Dr.  Sheldon  ;  "  Only  frightened  with  the  fire,  they  had  flown  up 
the  Puritan  chimney." 

Dr.  Morlev  :  "  Or  perhaps  my  lord  Archbishop  had  disturbed 
them  with  his  chanticleer  declaration  to  sport,  good  Dr.  Sheldon,  for 
I  have  heard  it  said  they  are  wont  to  take  alarm  when  the  cock 
crows." 

Dr.  Sheldon  laughing  with  the  rest  of  us  at  this  back-handed 
stroke.  Dr.  Chillingworth  made  reply  : — 

"  Ah,  yes  !  merry  England  has  lost  her  fairies  and  can  show 
nothing  now  but  publicans  and  sinners  on  the  one  side  and  scribes 
and  Pharisees  on  the  other."  As  he  said  this  he  sat  down  with  the 
look  of  one  dolefully  resigned  upon  some  matter. 

Sir  E.  Waller  :  "Then  in  lieu  of  Plato  and  \S\^  ia;\xv&s\^'^ 


3  So  Tiu  GentUman*s  Moffotiften 

Ut  nyself  it  Dr.  Chillingwoith*s  feet  and  learn  his  medicament  for 
the  scribes  and  the  publicans."  This  he  did  regardless  of  his  doublet 

Dr.  Chillingwonh  :  ''I  have  long  ago  written  out  my  frescriftk^ 
Sir  Edmund,  but  'tis  a  bolus  they  will  not  swallow.  I  have  piped  my 
bes:  :o  them,  but  they  will  not  dance,  neither  pharisees  nor  sinnen 
ct  them." 

Mr.  G?r"'i.FHiN  :  MVait  till  the  wind  goes  down,  Chillingworth, 
then  they  will  hear  \our  piping  better.' 

Los:-  F.\LKL\Mt  :  **The  harpstrings  of  the  Grove  will  Ije  broken 
by  then.  Siiney.  This  wind  will  rise  first  before  it  falls,  and  the 
p^jvT;;  we  shall  have  will  be  the  peace  that  follows  the  hurricane, 
all  strewn  w::*i  wrecks.**  Then  he  iterated  very  low  and  sadir, 
"  Fcice,  peace  '.  yes.  but  if  it  should  be  the  peace  of  the  tombs ! " 

Ir.en  l>i5.  Hammoxi*  spoke:  '*  But  for  our  own  part  we  haw 
n:uch  ca^se  tor  :rar.-i'.iil  thankfulness."  Dr.  Hammond  was  always 
deeply  Ii>:er.cvi  t-»,  there  being  something  so  sweetly  i)ersuasi>t 
ia  h:>  low-n-.^JulAied  and  clear  voice,  and  sometimes  a  kind  of 
lock  uTcn  h:s  !a».e  the  saints  might  be  thought  to  wear.  *'\Ve 
have  mjiie  shf:  :o  catch  a  strain  or  two  of  the  divine  harmonies 
which  FLiio  htf.ird  ar.J  to  mtune  our  lives  to  something  of  the 
harmon-.ous  pea^e  he  tclt.  Not  unsuccessfully,  I  trust,  for  our 
lives  ha\e  been  mv^vir.^:  to  a  rich  music  these  three  years  gone.'* 

Mr.  Ooi^'iiHiN  i\%l;o  had  great  briskness  with  him  despite  his 
weak  health*:  •Most  trae.  Dr.  Hammond;  and  though  we  may 
scatter  I'rcm  here  anu  little  .accomplished  to  look  to,  yet  the  spirit  of 
reason  we  arc  sure  will  pre  vail,  even  as  the  spirit  of  Socrates  could 
not  Ix*  drowned  in  the  hemlock- potion." 

Dk.  Hvmvonp:  "Something  such  I  was  about  to  say,  Mr. 
CW.oI;  hin  ;  tor  deeper  than  the  unreasonable  and  harsh  noise  of 
strife  that  i>  al^r^^J,  1  sometimes  think  I  hear  the  sound  of  a  great 
harmony  swelling  over  England,  the  present  discord  being  only  a 
music  of  preparation." 

Hv;l  1  s^iw  that  my  lord  Falkland  had  little  heart  whether  for 
mirth  or  hoiH.\  though  he  had  tried  cheerfully  to  dispel  the  misty 
nimbus,  and  now  he  s|H>ke  A^ith  a  voice  and  look  that  discovered  the 
IvASsionate  sorrow  at  his  heart. 

'•  Kven  hopctul  and  courageous,  Sidney,  we  have  too  few  of  your 
mettle  :  but  vou  hear  the  news  from  Scotland,  and  you  see  how  the 
Kuij;  and  the  Archbi>hop  will  drive  to  extremes.  And  so,  Dr. 
Hammond,  instead  of  the  harmony  of  the  spheres,  I  doubt  me  there 
will  l^  clashing  of  swords  both  there  and  here  before  long." 

Then  wc  held  some  converse  about  the  state  of  affoirsi  wherewith 


Our  Last  Meeting  at  lew. 

il  is  needless  I  should  trouble  you  unless  it  were  to  show  how  wisely 
and  etact!)'  ray  lord  F.  had  forejudged  the  issue.  For  he  saw  all 
poiiiioas  and  he  did  not  mistake  his  own.  Some  one  of  us  protested 
[hat  he  wished  the  clergy  on  both  sides  could  be  chained  up  ;  when 
iny  lord  at  risk  of  being  thought  disloyal  said  the  chain  had  needs 
be  long  enough  to  reach  a  leg  of  his  raajesty  likewise.  Of  this  he 
seemed  sure  that  it  would  come  to  hot  strife,  and  if  we  would  not  be 
lliogether  empty  of  inSuence  we  would  be  forced  to  take  a  side  ;  yet 
^is,  he  saw,  was  just  wherein  our  failure  lay,  in  being  forced  to  take 
I  side,  for  in  that  case,  we  were  in  a  measure  fighting  against 
wives. 

"Reason  will  never  do  it,"  he  said,  "for  King,  bishops  and 
scusants  have  closed  their  ears  against  that :  and  Chillingworth  who 
•right  reconcile  them  all  if  they  would  but  listen  to  hira,  is  told  that 
e  preaches  the  divinity  taught  in  hell.  His  pharisees  and  sinners 
fill  light  it  out  between  them  in  their  own  way,  and  we  shall  be 
Weed  to  take  pari  with  one  or  other  of  these, — which  side,  we  must 
rait  and  see." 

He  seemed  as  he  felt  that  this  going  of  his  and  the  breaking  up 
>(  our  company  was  an  end  of  reason  and  now  that  it  must  come  to 
rforce,  and  this  was  pardy  what  saddened  him,  but  pardy  also  some- 
ig  else  which  I  can  only  call  a  kind  of  Nemesis  that  haunted  him 
JwDm  the  day  of  his  receiving  the  King's  letter. 

We  spoke  long  together,  until  the  evening  drew  in,  and  now  we 
•*re  sitting,  not  speaking,  but  only  as  enjoying  one  another's  company 
pW  the  last  time,  it  might  be,  and  loth  to  leave  the  place  :  to  that 
"tie  company  it  was  the  last  lime.  Then  Mr.  Godolphin  with  that 
Wsk  and  hopeful  fancy  of  his  : — 

''See,  my  lord,  where  the  heavens  give  augury  of  a  fair  morrow. 
-an  you  mistrust  it,  prophetof  bright  weather  and  welcome  harbinger 
*  the  coming  good?  Accept  the  omen,  good  my  lord,  and  believe 
''at  fair  weather  is  yet  in  store  for  England." 

Lord  Falkland  :  "  Do  you  hear  the  wind  moaning  in  the  trees, 
•dttey?" 
I*       Mr.  Godolphj.v  :  "'Tis  only  wind  and  trees  lamenting  together 
*t  we  are  all  to  forsake  them  for  a  wtiile." 

I. ORD  Falkland  ;  '"Tis  the  sound  the  water  makes  upon  the 

■'■-shore,  Sidney  ;  you  know  how  sad  it  is.     And  we  have  been  like 

"''dren  building  houses  of  shells  thtre.     The  tide  comes  up,  dark 

'^'l  troubled ;  we  bid  it  be  still,  but  we  are  driven  back  before  it  and 

^^  little  shell-houses  washed  away." 

L      As  we  sate,  a  sound  of  music  came  stealing  upon  us  through  the 


-Iy  Tin  GaibmaMS 


v3cL  ^^tc  vingi  upon  the  sr, 


mccc.  IT  =cnifi=nar  ii  tie  sri=.E3e:r:.rr±easaisce,actIiesiiqw« 
rjac  iUcT^  tv^t:  =:is-;c.  r:e  s:c?  £ed  iway  into  sadness  uditsM 
•,-xss  -laii  -It  ---•■i='-  1  ^:-^'c  ^  "-^'  *=^  ▼ar:i=S-  Presently  lady  F. 
'*   „-.:^i  -.^  "  -:--  r— V •-- — .—-lt  x=':ni  rie  trees,  the  dttera  in 

■*  -vr-Tir*  :ti  rr^  "i  ':  ii  :n»2  Grrr-  i  loc  -  ^^x>d  bye.  lady  Falkland, 
r^  -J- J*  s,— -r"  -f -:.ir  —ilrs  -^-^t^  "  :is  md  chsmed  us  like  a  saw- 

Latt  F.^s:iA>-r  :  -I  t^iII  h  cccid  chiin  you  all  loi^al 
TcTT.  ITr.  C' '  -'  rr--^.  E-t  'lis  cnl^  f:r  2  seiion-  and  the  limes  and 
oaks  w-lL  ki^i-  :-i  iii::-er  zrc'I  sZenc  ccm^any  till  your  letunL 
\%  •  --..u5^  "  — *: -r- -     T^i  -"-'-ev  ^j-iihe  irlTtcf  tongues,  what secRtt 

b?-  Ch:--l:v:'^  :?TH  :  -AZ  i:::-Me=Lt  secrets,  be  sure,  thou^ 
some  of  tr.-in  iir.r.ei  e-:uz''.* 

M?.  E.^r.T-i:  -T'-fv  i\lI  —Sa  scree  wrrds  of  innocent 
w:-.i::n — -vjl:-  cr.ir-  :-:  in  :!*.=  ttccJs  nnd  ro  man  regarding 
her.-' 

\—T-  Fa:.vl.-:-:  :  -  Tr.^v  ::i"^h:  5-;:.--k  cf  hopes  bom  lite  a 
brive  5urr.z:er  z^,^:z:l.7.z.  izi  :.  r.:::r.:  cirsirz  like  this  in  troubled 
ar.tii:rii::c~^." 

L\:rx'  Fal:-::.a!T  :  -Ar.^  I  :l:u  sure  ihey  would  have  a  word  10 
sav  of  mar.v  haT-r-v  hcurs  between.  Ei:t  will  vou  iiive  them  a  formal 
farewell,  gentlemer.  ?  Wi":  ycu  sirj  them  a  parting  chansonette,  Sir 
Edmuni  ?  '^ 

Sip  E.  Wallfr:  "With  great  pleasure,  my  lady:  if  I  did  but 
know  how  to  suit  the  occasion." 

The  occasion  being  voted  to  suit  itself,  Sir  Edmund  took  the 
cittern  and  with  a  few  prelusive  chords  sung  a  ditty  which  as  he  said 
was  a  pinch  erotical. 

"And  now  ye  oaks,  farewell,  and  farewell,  yc  limes!    Sacred 
spot,  adieu,  until  we  meet  again." 
I'lit  wc  never  met  again. 

My  lord  P'alkland  rode  off  in  the  morning,  we  accompanying 
him  as  far  as  Oxford,  where  wc  parted  with  him,  bidding  biin 
(lodspecd. 

lie  was  a  little  heartened  when  the  Parliament  met  in  the  spring 
of  1640,  thinking  that  here  might  be  occasion  to  settle  the  troubles  0^ 
the  time  in  reasonable  fashion.     He  took  much  part  in  this  Parli*" 


Ovr  Last  Ulcc/ing  at  Tac.  iS^ 

mer.t,  hoping  great  things  of  it ;  seme  of  which  I  daresny  would 

have  come  to  pass,  had  not  his  majesty  fallen  into  error  by  hastily 

dissolving  it.     Then  came  the  Bishops'  affair  from  Scotland,  and  in 

November,  as  you  know,  his  majesty  was  constrained  to  re-assemble 

Parliament,  having  cast   off  a  mild  restraint  only  to  fmd  himself 

ridden  with  the  hot  curb  of  independency.     This  too  he  soon  cast 

off  and  broke  loose  with  a  plunge,  and  then,  as  I  have  heard  my  lord 

Falkland  say,  "  the  Parliament  began  to  quarrel,  not  about  preserving 

the  constitution,  but  about  the  manner  of  destroying  it."    After  this 

he  became  very  hopeless  and  distract,  seeing  no  remedy  or  none  that 

either  side  would  look  at,  and  knowing  now  that  he  must  give  up  his 

ground  and  retire  one  way  or  other,  having  only  the  poor  choice 

before  him  that  Dr.  Chillingworth  had  spoken  of,  either  with  the 

Pharisees  or  with  the  sinners.     Concludirtg  after  much  torture  of 

mind  which  well-nigh  killed  him,  that  the  Best  hope  for  England  lay 

in  beating  down  the  pharisees,  he  took  his  side  with  a  foreboding 

'  sadness,  for  better  or  worse,  with  his  majesty's  men,  that  Nemesis 

still  dogging  his  heels  as  it  had  done  ever  from  the  time  he  was  first 

summoned.     It  would  have  torn  your  heart  to  see  how  he  went 

forward  after  this,  how  suffering,  yet  how  brave,  like  one  smitten  with 

a  mortal  disease,  night  shrouding  him  in  deeper  and  deeper  and  that 

Nemesis  standing  by,  he  only  abiding  its  time;  yet  brave,  brave 

always,  though  he  had  looked  into  the  baleful  eyes  of  that  Presence, 

too  little  thinking  of  himself,  too   little  sparing  of  himself,  good, 

gallant  Falkland. 

On  the  morning  of  the  engagement  he'seemcd  to  know  the  end 
was  near  at  hand.  I  was  with  him.  He  dressed  himself,  as  1 
thought,  with  greater  scrupulosity  than  he  had  long  manifcste(i  «?bout; 
his  person.  He  was  very  calm,  and  a  glimnier  of  RiS  pld  sweetness 
came  back  to  him  as  he  spoke.  Had  I  not  been  blind,  1  might"  fiavV 
seen  that  he  was  going  out  to  meet  death. 

*'  I  am  a -weary  of  the  times,  coz  :  this  will  not  be  the  end,  never 
think  it :  I  can  foresee  much  misery  yet  to  come,  tut  I  believe  I 
shall  be  out  of  it  ere  night,"  and  so  he  took  an  affectionate  leave  of 
me.  He  did  not  return,  and  next  morning  we  found  him  lying 
among  the  dead.  We  have  given  him  a  quiet  burial  where  he  is  not 
like  to  be  disturbed  any  more.     He  has  found  that  peace  he  .  .  . 

JOHN    G.  DOW. 


U    ^  -  i.  ^-fUZM  :    .  .  j-ji^- 1€, 


1   ■   -   1 


^  .•  -H^. 


w 


.  ..    -.  1^  & 


—  ~    \ 


.^1 


.     _     -   ..      v.. •  \r 


—  *  ■       •   ■ 


■?".^ 


. •»?.  ^>.    .  .  ^   --  i   -     ;    --  — ."    ■'    •■• • 

•  ■  ■  '         •  • 

.in-j.  JT  •  .-  ..r.".>.  ::  ?:.r':5  ::.  ..:i.j  '.r.:.:  :r.  :.'.c5e  cises  the 

.-  lirirsirr  »;:>:  :h:^  l.n^inj-j  ::::rro:5.  :::  whi^h  all  the  dirj 
.n  :c  intr,-.:re  *rrcu^r.::o  i:ay:<:.cj:dr::::ed  Thro'jghout  i 


eye  predonjinales  ;  and  there  is  certainly  a  great  depth  of 
Leiccness  in  the  dark  eye  of  a  bird  of  prey  ;  but  its  effect  is  less  than 
ftiai  produced  by  the  vividly-coloured  eye,  or  even  of  the  white  eye 
oF  some  raptorial  species,  as,  for  instance,  of  the  Astiirina  puchcrani, 
Viglent  emotions  are  associated  in  our  minds— possibly,  also,  in  the 
oiods  of  other  species — with  certain  colours.  Bright  red  seems  the 
ai'propriate  hue  of  anger :  the  poet  Herbert  even  calls  the  rose 
"  ingrie  and  brave  "  on  account  of  its  hue  :  and  the  red  or  orange 
cenainly  expresses  resentment  better  than  the  dark  eye.  Even  a 
toy  slight  spontaneous  variation  in  the  colouring  of  the  iride?  might 
give  an  advantage  to  an  inSividual  for  natural  selection  to  act  on  ; 
for  we  can  sec  in  almost  any  living  creature  that  not  only  in  its 
'perpetual  metaphorical  struggle  for  existence  is  its  life  safeguarded 
;ia  many  ways ;  but  when  protective  resemblances,  flight,  and 
Astincts  of  concealment  all  fail,  and  it  is  compelled  to  engage  in  a 
Jttlsini^lc  with  a  living  adversary,  it  is  provided  for  such  occasions 
With  another  set  of  defences,  l^anguage  and  attitudes  of  defiance  come 
Btoplay;  feathers  or  hairs  are  erected  j  beaks  snap  and  strike,  or 
tteih  are  gnashed,  and  the  mouih  foams  or  s]iits  ;  the  bodf  puffs 
lOUt;  wings  are  waved  or  feet  stamped  on  the  ground,  and  many 
'  Other  gestures  of  rage  are  practised.  It  is  not  possible  to  believe  that 
the  colouring  of  the  crystal  globes,  towards  which  an  opponent's  sight  is 
Sfst  directed,  and  which  most  vividly  exhibit  the  raging  emotions 
Ithin,  can  have  been  entirely  neglected  as  a  means  of  defence  by 
llie  principle  of  selection  in  nature.  For  all  these  reasons  I  believe 
"1*  bright -coloured  eye  is  an  improvement  on  the  dark  eye. 

Man  has  been  very  little  improved  in  this  direction,  the  dark  eye, 

^ept  in  the  north  of  Europe,  having  been,  until  recent  times,  almost 

quite  universal.    The  blue  eye  does  not  seem  to  have  any  advan- 

*S6  for  man  in  a  state  of  nature,  being  mild  where  fierceness  of 

^^       ision  is  required;  it  is  almost  unknown  amongst  the  inferior 

**aturcs;  and  only  on  the  supposition  that  the  appearance  of  the 

porlant  to  man's  welfare  than  it  is  to  that  of  other 

J*cies  can  we  account  for  its  survival  in  a  branch  of  the  human  race, 

'*tle,  however,  as  the  human  eye  has  changed,  assuming  it  to  have 

***  dark  originally,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  spontaneous  variation  in 

'^viduals,    hght   ha^el  and    blue-grey    being  apparently  the  most 

^'^ble.     1  have  found  curiously  marked  and  spotted  eyes  not  uii- 

.    "iinon  ;  in  some  instances  the  spots  being  so  black,  round,  and 

"r*^*  as  to  produce  the  appearance  of  eyes  with  clusters  of  pupils  on 

rj^l).     I  liave  known  one  person  with  large  brown  spots  on  light 

pUe.gjey  eyes,  whose  children  all  inherited  the  peculiarity  ;  also 


a^^fii::fclr3BBi3tsdv3&  foe  dunctcit 

c  of  SpMuA 

^  ,  -.,„,  '^TT—  ,ii»».i-j-—w  Abi»  Af»  eyes,  bolliia 
^^'^^£m  Ann  «Bd  ^t""^*^™*  «f  tfae  nubnp 
n,v9rpnnJkaiK«Ke7a«f  a  cnooiaa  ^>cda  rf 

Ibtxne  bas  sx^ecled  min  in  ilui 

_  (*  Ivmd  phunes. 
»  ax  imtablj  due,  like 
The  quiliiyrf 
I  hf  inni]-  aoctgnul  ai 
~e  purpose.  Wbo 
^  in  At  Icinim,  it  an 
;,  ^ddi>«addbc>iwandcisemili 
g  de  tdfiKC  "  vanw^  ooloms  *  oT  oibcr  speds 
OB  wtaidi  birds  do  not  ^aj^  Ols  ■MWgt  nMimnab,  and  oiA 
■— i»plfcirf»,ha«gteMMosth^Jtyfiwiotd;  but  to  the  ovls  1^ 
IMlBOMnbe^TOi.  T1iefc£nee7es,asaf>pviiiscir«n1(}cit,btani« 
mlb*ntli,»cwaBdetfdItosM:  sometimenfac  s^t  of  ihemaflecU 
one  tike  an  eleotk:  diock;  bat  lor  intense  bdOiaiKC  and  qukk  diangOi 
the  Aatk  oibs  WmfWng  with  ibe  starting  smMnwu'ss  of  a  cloud  illn- 
nrfnated  by  Baihcs-  of  lightning,  the  ydlov  globes  of  the  owl  xt 
unparalleled.  Some  readers  m^ht  think  mj  language  cxaggentn- 
l>c»criptJonB  of  bright  sunsets  and  of  stonns  with  thunder  ind 
li)^itning  would,  no  doubt,  sound  eitravagant  lo  one  who  bad  n«» 
witnessed  these  phenomena.  Those  only  who  spend  years  "con- 
vcTiing  with  wild  animals  in  desert  places,"  to  quote  .Azara's  worid 
know  ihat,  as  with  the  atmosphere,  so  with  animal  life,  there  tt 
flpecial  moments  ;  and  that  a  creature  presenting  a  very  sony  ap- 
pearance dead  in  a  museum,  or  living  in  captivity,  may,  when  hard 
prcmicd  and  fighting  for  life  in  its  own  fastness,  be  sublimed  by  its  (uty 
into  a  weird  and  terrible  object. 

Nature  lias  many  surprises  for  those  who  wait  on  her  :  one  of  the 
(jrcatcit  ihc  ever  favoured  me  with  was  the  sight  of  a  wouodeil 
MaRcUanic  eagle-owl  I  shot  on  the  Rio  Negro  in  Patagonia.  Tl* 
haunt  of  this  bird  was  an  Island  in  the  river,  overgrown  with  giw' 
grasKi  and  tall  willows,  leafless  now,  for  it  was  in  the  middleof 
winter.    Here  I  sought  for  and  found  him  waiting 


;  on  his  pc^^jn 


Cona-rnhg  Eyes. 

MSUD  lo  set.    He  eyed  me  so  calmly  wlien  I  aimed  my  gun,  I  J 

^ely  had  the  heart  lo  pull  the  trigger.     He  had  reigned  there  s 

ag,  the  feudal  tyrant  of  that  remote  wilderness  !    Many  a  water-ra^  I 

;  like  a  shadow  along  the  margin  between  the  deep  stream  j 

)3  ihc  giant  rushes,  he  had  snatched  away  to  death ;  many  a  spotted  \ 

"M  pigeon  had  woke  on  its  perch    at  night  with  his  cruel  crooked  \ 

IS  piercing  its  ilesh ;  and  beyond  the  valley  on  the  bushy  uplands    , 

Ufa  crested  tinamou  had  been  sbin  on  her  nest  and  her  beautiful 

tj  dark  green  eggs  left  to  grow  pale  in  the  sun  and  wind,  the 

e  lives  that  were  in  them  dead  because  of  their  mother's  death. 

wanted  that  bird  badly,  and  hardened  my  heart:  the  "de- 

bniacal  laughter  "  with  which  he  had  so  often  answered  the  rushing 

fSd  of  the  swift  black  river  at  eventide  would  be  heard  no  more. 

;  he  swerved  on  bis  perch,  remained  suspended  for  a  few 

HBentS,  then  slowly  fluttered  down.     Behind  the  spot  where  he  had 

a  was  a  great  mass  of  tangled  dark-green  grass,  out  of  which  rose 

^Ull,  slender  boles  of  the  trees  ;  overhead  through  the  fretwork  of 

Ifcsa  iwigs  the  sky  was  flushed  with  tender  roseate  tints,  for  the 

Ifliad  now  gone  down  and  the  surface  of  the  earth  was  in  shadow. 

!re,  in  such  a  scene,  and  with  the  wintry  quiet  of  the  desert  over 

\  I  found  my  victim  stung  by  his  wounds  to  fury  and  prepared 

I  the  last  supreme  effort     Even  in  repose  he  is  a  big  eagle-like 

:  now  his  appearance  was  quite  altered,  and  in  the  dim,  uncer- 

Blight  he  looked  gigantic  in  size— a  monster  of  strange  form  and 

Irible  aspect.     Each  pnriicular  fealher  stood  out  on  end,  the  lawny 

3  tail  spread  out  like  a  fjn,  the  immense  tiger- coloured  wings 

leopen  and  rigid,  so  that  as  the  bird,  that  had  clutched  the  grass 

t  his  great  feathered  claws,  swayed  his  body  slowly  from  side  to 

—just  as  a  snake  about  to  strike  sways  its  head,  or  as  an  angry 

j1  cat  moves  its  tail — first  the  tip  of  one,  then  of  the  other  wing 

ched  the  ground.    The  black  horns  stood  erect,  while  in  the 

:e  of  the  wheel-shaped  head  the  beak  snapped  incessantly,  pro- 

inga  sound  resembling  the  clicking  of  a  sewing-machine.     This 

jl  a  suitable  setting  for  the  pair  of  magnificent  furious  eyes,  on  which 

ied  with  a  kind  of  fascination,  not  unmixed  with  fear  when  I 

^embered  the  agony  of  pain   sufTered  on  former  occasions  from 

**P,  crooked  talons  driven  ir.lo  me  to  the  bone.     The  irides  were 

\  ■  bright  orange  colour,  but  every  lime  I  attempted  to  approach 

t*  bird  they  kindled  into  great  globes  of  quivering  yellow  Bame,  the 

*i  pupils  being  surrounded  by  a  sciniillating  crimson  light  which 

ptw  out  minute  yellow  sparks  into  the  air.     When  I  retired  from 

p  bird  this  preternatural  fiery  aspect  would  instantly  vanish. 


..:::.  \-'.:...::^  n/J.:  kt.\:,'a.  I'ro'o.ili'.y  all  su.  Ii  dticripiions  s 
i  ^L-.ii.'  t\a^^i.:.ii;v::'.  One  \\\>:\\d  iiDt  Iuo'k  for  these 
.-ii:.'::^?:  :iie  j^t:;  ■-':.:1  liiiiilrfii  of  civilisiiliun,  who,  when  i 
w.sr.  oo  ->  w;:!.o^',  Ji\4er,  aiiJ  kill  theit  enemies  by  n 
wi'hoiii  eien  st-eini;  ihem  ;  bui  auion;;si  s.ivage  or  seiiii-sa 
i.irnivor^'.'is  in  their  diet,  licrec  in  disposition,  and  extremi 
i.i  tliLir  ["jssi.iiis.  It  is  precisely  amonysl  people  of  this  d 
thit  I  hive  liveJ  a  great  deal.  1  have  often  seen  them  fre) 
excitement,  thni  faces  white  as  ashes,  hiir  erect,  and  eyes 


Ccncerning 

tears  of  rage,  bul  I  liave  never  seen  anything  in  lliem  even 
idling  to  that  (iery  appearance  described  in  the  o 

Nalure  has  done  comparatively  IJtile  for  the  human  eye,  not  only 
.denying  it  the  terrifying  splendours  found  in  some  other  species, 
ilalso  in  the  minor  merit  of  beauty;  yet  here,  when  we  consider 
Wr  much  sexual  selection  concerns  itself  with  tlie  eye,  a  great  deal 
ighthave  been  expected.  When  going  about  the  world  one  cannot 
ilp  thinking  that  the  varions  races  and  tribes  of  men,  differing  in 
le  colour  of  their  skins  and  in  the  climates  and  conditions  they 
re  in,  ought  to  have  differently- colon  red  eyes.  In  Brazil,  I  was 
rally  struck  with  tiie  magnificent  appearance  of  many  of  the  negro 
well-formed,  tall,  majestic  creatures,  often 
ipdately  clothed  in  loose  white  gowns  and  white  turban-likc 
Iresses;  while  on  iheir  round  polished  blue-black  arms  they 
«  silver  armlets.     It  seemed  to  me  that  paie  golden  irides,  as 

the  intensely  black  tyrant-bird  Lichenops,  would  have  given  a 
lishbg  glory  to  these  sable  beauties,  compleung  their  strange 
rique  loveliness.  Again,  in  that  exquisite  type  of  female  bcat.ty 
hich  we  see  in  the  white  girl  with  a  slight  infusion  of  negro  blool, 
ving  the  graceful  frizzle  to  the  hair,  the  pnrple-red  hue  to  the  lips, 
idlhc  dusky  terra-coita  tinge  to  the  skin,  an  eye  more  suitable 
an  the  dark  dull  brown  would  have  been  the  intense  orange  brown 
«n  in  the  lemur's  eye.  For  many  very  dark-skinned  tribes  nothing 
Hire  beautiful  than  the  ruby-red  iris  could  be  imagined ;  while  sea- 
Wneyes  would  have  best  suited  dusky-pale  Polynesians  and  languid 
Mccful  tribes  hke  that  one  described  in  Tennyson's  poem: — 

Anil  lounil  abaul  ihe  keel  wiili  faces  pile, 

Dark  Tacea  pale  againsl  lliat  rosy  flaiiie, 

The  miia-e>eil  melancholy  Loios  caieia  csme. 

Since  we  cannot  have  the  eyes  we  should  like  best  to  have,  let  us 
iider  those  that  nature  has  given  us.  The  incomparable  beauty 
the  "emerald  eyu  "  has  been  greatly  praised  by  the  poets,  particu- 
%  by  those  of  Spain.  Emerald  eyes,  if  ihey  only  existed,  would 
"ainly  be  beautiful  beyond  all  others,  especially  if  set  off  with  dark 
black  hair  and  that  dim  pensive  creamy  pallor  of  the  skin  fre- 
^Htly  seen  in  warm  climates,  and  which  is  more  beautiful  than  the 
y  complexion  prevalent  in  northern  regions,  though  not  so  lasting. 
*  either  they  do  not  exist  or  else  I  have  been  very  unfortunate,  for 
^long  seeking  I  am  compelled  to  confess  that  never  yet  have  I 
^  gratified  by  the  sight  of  emerald  eyes.  I  have  seen  eyes  ciiik.i 
■en,  that  is,  eyes  with  a  greenish  tinge  or  light  in  them,  but  ihey 
tt  not  the  eyes  I  sought.     One  can  easily  forgive  the  poets  their 

"  \ 


ij^o  TIi€  Gentleman's  Jifa^mine. 

iding  descriptions,  since  they  are  not  trustworlhy  g 

I  very  often,  like  Humpty  Duropty  in  "  Throjgh  the  Looking  GUm," 

ftoake  words  do  "estra  work."     For  sober  fact  one  is  accustomed  lo 

^look  to  men  of  science;  yet,  strange  to  say,  while  these  comphin  that 

—the  unscientific  ones — are  without  any  settled  and  correct  idcu 

\  about  the  colour  of  our  own  eyes,  they  have  endorsed  the  poet's  £lblc, 

I    and  have  even  taken  considerable  piins  to  persuade  the  world  of  iB 

mith.     Or.  Paul  Broca  is  their  greatest  authority.     In  his  "  Maniul 

for  Anthropologists  "  he  divides  human  eyes  into  four  distinct  ljf|)es 

— orange,  green,  blue,  grey  ;  and  these  four  again  into  five  varieliM 

each.     The  symmetry  of  such  a  classification  suggests  at  ooee  llui 

it  is  an  arbitrary  one.     Why  orange,  for  instance  ?     I-ighl  hazel,  clay 

colour,  red,  dull  brown,  cannot  properly  be  called  orange;  but  ihediii- 

sion  requires  the  five  supposed  varieties  of  the  dark  pigmented  eye  ID 

be  grouped  under  one  name,  and  because  there  is  yellow  pigmeDt  in 

some  dark  eyes  they  are  all  called  orange.     Again,  to  make  the  five 

grey  varieties  the  lightest  grey  is  made  so  very  light  that  only  whtn 

placed  on  a  sheet  of  white  paper  docs  it  show  grey  at  all  :  but  lhfl( 

is  always  some  colour  in  the  human  skin,  so  that  Broca's  eye  HOiild 

appear  absolutely  white  by  contrast— a  thing  unheard  of  in  niliW- 

Then  we  have  the  green,  beginning  with  the  palest  sage  green,  and 

up  through  grass  green  and  enier.tld  green,  to  the  deepest  sea  grW 

and  the  green  of  the  holly  leaf.     Do  such  eyes  exist  in  nature?  l<^ 

theory  they  do.     The  blue  eye  is  blue,  and  the  grey  grey,  becailieis 

such  eyes  there  is  no  yellow  or  brown  pigment  on  the  outer  surfee 

of  the  iris  to  prevent  the  dark  purple  pigment — the  (rtM— onlh* 

inner  surface  from  being  seen  through  the  membrane,  which  las  ilif- 

ferent  degrees  of  opacity,  making  the  eye  appear  grey,  light  ot  daA 

blue,  or  p-.irple,   as  the   case   may  be.      When    yellow   pigment  i* 

deposited  in  small  quantity  on  the  outer  membrane,  then  it  should, 

according  to  the  theory,  blend  with  the  inner  blue  and  makcgnSfc 

Unfortunately  for  the  anthropologists,  it  doesn't     It  only  gives  i* 

some  cases  the  greenish  variable  tinge  1  have  mentioned,  but  nollui^ 

approaching  to  the  decided  greens  of  Broca'a  ublcs.     Given  lAtp 

ivith  the  right  degree  of  translucency  in  the  membrane  and  a  veif 

thin  deposit  of  yellow  pigment  spread  equally  over  the  surface;  tli* 

result  would  be  a  perfectly  green  iris.     Nature,  however,  doe)  DOl 

proceed  quite  in  this  way.     The  yellow  pigment  varies  greatly  inliWJ 

it  is  muddy  yellow,  brown,  or  e:irthy  colour,  and  it  never  spfts^t 

Itself  uniformly  over  the  surface,  but  occurs  in  patches  grouped  aboB' 

the  pupil  and  spreads  in  dull  rays  or  lines  and  spots,  so  that  the'?* 

which  science  says  "  ought  to  be  called  green"  is  usually  a  very  W 


Concerning  Eyes.  391 

blue-grey,  or  brownish-blue,  or  clay  colour,  and  in  some  rare  instances 
shows  a  changeable  greenish  hue. 

In  the  remarks  accompanying  the  report  of  the  Anthropometric 
Committee  of  the  British  Association  for  1881  and  1883,  it  is  said 
that  green  eyes  are  more  common  than  the  tables  indicate,  and  that 
eyes  that  should  properly  be  called  green,  owing  to  the  popular  pre- 
judice against  that  term,  have  been  recorded  as  grey  or  some  other 
colour. 

Does  any  such  prejudice  exist?  or  is  it  necessary  to  go  about 
with  the  open  manual  in  our  hands  to  know  a  green  eye  when  we 
see  one?  No  doubt  the  "  popular  prejudice  "  is  supposed  to  have 
its  origin  in  Shakespeare's  description  of  jealousy  as  a  green-eyed 
monster ;  but  if  Shakespeare  has  any  great  weight  with  the  popular 
mind  the  prejudice  ought  to  be  the  other  way,  since  he  is  one  of 
those  who  sing  the  splendours  of  the  green  eye. 

Thus,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  : — 

The  eagle,  madam, 
Ilath  not  so  green,  so  quick,  so  fair  an  eye 
As  Paris  hath. 

• 

The  lines  are,  however,  nonsense,  as  green-eyed  eagles  have  no 
existence  ;  and  perhaps  the  question  of  the  popular  prejudice  is  not 
worth  arguing  about. 

If  we  could  leave  out  the  mixed  or  neutral  eyes,  which  are  in  a 
transitional  state — blue  eyes  with  some  dark  pigment  obscuring  their 
blueness,  and  making  them  quite  unclassi.fiable,  as  no  two  pairs  of 
eyes  are  found  alike — then  all  eyes  might  be  divided  into  two  great 
natural  orders,  those  with  and  those  without  pigment  on  the  outer 
surface  of  the  membrane.  They  could  not  be  called  light  and  dark 
eyes,  since  many  hazel  eyes  are  really  lighter  than  purple  and  dark 
grey  eyes.  They  might,  however,  ht  simply  called  brown  and  blue 
eyes,  for  in  all  eyes  with  the  outer  pigment  there  is  brown,  or  some- 
thing scarcely  distinguishable  from  brown ;  and  all  eyes  without 
pigment,  even  the  purest  greys,  have  some  blueness. 

Brown  eyes  express  animal  passions  rather  than  intellect,  and  the 
higher  moral  feelings.  They  are  frequently  equalled  in  their  own 
peculiar  kind  of  eloquence  by  the  brown  or  dark  eyes  in  civilised 
dogs.  In  animals  there  is,  in  fact,  often  an  exaggerated  eloquence 
of  expression.  To  judge  from  their  eyes,  caged  cats  and  eagles  in 
the  Zoological  Gardens  are  all  furred  and  feathered  Bonnivards. 
Even  in  the  most  intellectual  of  men  the  brown  eye  speaks  more  of 
the  heart  than  of  the  hewid.      In  the  inferior  creatures  the  black  e^^ 


392  Thi  Gcnthmans  Magazhte. 

is  always  keen  and  cunning  or  else  soft  and  mild,  as  in  fawns,  dm-es, 

aquatic  birds,  .Vc.  ;  and  it  is  remarkable  that  in  nun  also  the  bbck 

eye  -dark  brown  iris  wiihlargi  pupil— generally  has  one  or  the  other 

of  tlioc   predominant  expressions.      Of  course,  in  highly  .civilised 

cosnmuniiies,  individual  exceptions  are  extremely  numerous.  Spanish 

nnd  r.ej:ro  women  have  wonilerfully  soft  and  loving  eyes,  while  the 

(  iTiniMj;  WLM>cl-like  eye  is  common  everywhere,   especially  amongst 

.\>'a!iv^      In  hii;h-caste  ( )rientals  the  keen,  cunning  look  has  been 

rcfmed  and  exalted  to  an  expression  of  marvellous  subtlety— the 

r.!v.^:  cxj-re-ision  of  which  the  black  eye  is  capable. 

11. c  buio  I'vc— all  blues  and  greys  being  here  included— is, /tff 

e\.  ":\,:\  il'.e  c^.e  of  intellectual  man;  that   outer  warm-coloured 

;  .::ncr.:  L.ir.j^in^  like  a  cloud,  as  it  were,  over  the  brain  absorbs  its 

liv-t  s;-ir::-.:al  c:ii.ina:ions,  so  that  only  when  it  is  quite  blown  away 

..re  we  /.Me  i)  1  :)ok  into  the  soul,  forgetting  man's  kinship  with  the 

lr.;\<.     \\  nen  one  is  unaccustomed  to  it  from  always  living  with 

i'..  rk-..u/i  rat  t>,  iho  blue  eye  seems  like  an  anomaly  in  nature,  if  not 

.'.  ;i^>:i;\e  Mur.iier  :  lor  its  power  of  expressing  the  lower  and  com- 

^^*ne>l  in>iinetN  .^.nd  passions  of  our  race  is  comparatively  limited; 

..nvi  in  c.;scs  wlu  re  llie  higher  faculties  are  undeveloped  it  seems 

\,i..in:  and  mean in^:! ess.     Add  to  this  that  the  ethereal  blue  colour 

is  a>s^K'ia:eil  in  ihe  mind  with  atmospheric  phenomena  rather  than 

\v.;:i  M'lid  ni.;t:er,  inorijanic  or  animal.     It  is  the  hue  of  the  void, 

i\Mes>:v»:.less  >kv  :  of  ^hadows  on  far-off  hill  and  cloud;  of  water 

uniler  certain  londilions  of  the  atmosphere,  and  of  the  unsubstantial 

Mnnnier  lu.e, 

Whoso  m.irjjin  fa«1es 

r.:i'.  ii  ;.:il  ft  rcver  a>  I  move. 

In  or^aniv'  natiire  we  only  rind  the  hue  sparsely  used  in  the 
ipiitkiy-perishin.;  llowers  of  some  frail  plants;   while  a  few  living 
ihinijs  of  free  and  buoyant  motions,  like  birds  and  butterflies,  have 
iH'cn  touched  on  the  wings  wiih  the  celestial  tint  only  to  make  them 
more  aeiial  in  aj»peaiance.     Only  in  man,  removed  from  the  gross 
m.iterialism  of  nature,  and  in  whom  has  been  developed  the  highest 
faculties  oi  the  mind,  do  we  see  the  full  beauty  and  significance  of 
the  blue  eye     the  e\e,  that  is,  without  the  interposing  cloud  of  dark 
j^i^ment    covering    it.      In    the    recently-published    biography  of 
Nathaniel    Hawthorne,   the   author  says  of  him  :  "  His  eyes  were 
Iari;o.  dark-blue,  brilliant,  and  full  of  varied  expression.     Bayard 
Tavlor  used  to  say  that  ihev  were  the  only  eyes  he  ever  knew  to 
lla>h  lire.  .  .  .  While  he  was  yet  at  college,  an  old  gipsy  woman, 
meeting  him  suddenly^in  a  woodland  path,  gazed  at  him  and  asked^ 


Concerning  Eyes.       \  393- 

*Are  you  a  man  or  an  angel?*"  Mrs.  Hawthorne  says  in  one  of 
her  letters  quoted  in  the  book  :  "  The  flame  of  his  eyes  consumed 
compliment,  cant,  sham,  and  falsehood ;  while  the  most  wretched 
sinners — so  many  of  whom  came  to  confess  to  him — met  in  his 
glance  such  a  pity  and  sympathy  that  they  ceased  to  be  afraid  of 
God  and  began  to  return  to  Him.  .  .  .  /  nn^er  dared  gaze  at  him^ 
€ven  /,  unless  his  lids  were  down  J* 

I  think  we  have,  most  of  us,  seen  eyes  like  these — eyes  which 
one  rather  avoids  meeting,  because  when  met  one  is  startled  by  the 
sight  of  a  naked  human  soul  brought  so  near.  One  person,  at  least, 
I  have  known  to  whom  the  above  description  would  apply  in  every 
j>articular ;  a  man  whose  intellectual  and  moral  nature  was  of  the 
highest  order,  and  who  perished  at  the  age  of  thirty,  a  martyr,  like 
the  late  Dr.  Rabbeth,  in  the  cause  of  science  and  humanity. 

How  very  strange,  then,  that  savage  man  should  have  been 
endowed  with  this  eye  unsuited  to  express  the  instincts  and  passions 
of  savages,  but  able  to  express  that  intelligent  and  high  moral  feeling 
which  a  humane  civilisation  was,  long  ages  after,  to  develop  in  his 
torpid  brain  !  A  fact  like  this  seems  to  fit  in  with  that  flattering, 
fascinating,  ingenious  hypothesis  invented  by  Mr.  Wallace  to  account 
for  facts  which,  according  to  the  theory  of  natural  selection,  ought 
not  to  exist.  But,  alas  !  that  beautiful  hypothesis  fails  to  convince. 
Even  the  most  degraded  races  existing  on  the  earth  possess  a 
language  and  the  social  state,  religion,  a  moral  code,  laws,  and  a 
species  of  civilisation  ;  so  that  there  is  a  great  gulf  between  them 
and  the  highest  ape  that  lives  in  the  woods.  And  as  far  back  as  we 
can  go  this  has  been  the  condition  of  the  human  race,  the  real 
primitive  man  having  left  no  writing  on  the  rocks.  Ii)  the  far  dim 
past  he  still  appears,  naked,  standing  erect,  and  with  a  brain  "  larger 
than  it  need  be,"  according  to  the  theory  ;  so  that  of  the  oldest  pre- 
historic skull  yet  discovered  Professor  Huxley  is  able  to  say  that  it  is 
a  skull  which  might  have  contained  the  brains  of  a  philosopher  or  of 
a  savage.  We  can  only  conclude  that  we  are  divided  by  a  very 
thin  partition  from  those  we  call  savages  in  our  pride  ;  and  that  if 
man  has  continued  on  the  earth,  changing  but  little,  for  so  vast  a 
period  of  time,  the  reason  is,  that  while  the  goddess  Elaboration  has 
held  him  by  ene  hand,  endeavouring  ever  to  lead  him  onwards,  the 
other  hand  has  been  clasped  by  Degeneration,  which  may  be 
personified  as  a  beauteous  and  guileful  nymph  whose  fascinations 
have  had  as  much  weight  with  him  as  the  wisdom  of  the  goddess. 

W.  H.  HUDSON. 
VOL.  CCLVl  I.      NO.  lS^2,  'E.'C 


394  "^^^  GentUtnaiis  Magazime, 


HOW  THE  PEOPLE  GET  MARRIED. 


T\\\\  r.ngli>h  marriage  law  ;is  it  now  stands  is  a  curious  piece  of 
I  ..Ui  hwork.  The  original  texture— a  plain  web  of  solid  stuff 
which  was  no  d.>ul)t  well  suited  to  its  primal  uses  -  is  still  laigdy 
ai>i»aroin  ;  but  it  has  been  overlaid  by  additions  of  more  luxurious 
UMierial,  and  seamed  in  repair  of  ancient  damage.  Most  con- 
sj^iiuous  u[H)n  it,  however,  are  the  amending  squares  introduced,  the 
ciilari^ini:  !»<^rJcrs  added,  by  the  busy  fingers  of  modem  legislators; 
.'.;id  b*.»'.dly  ir.to'.i'olated  into  its  very  midst  is  one  large  patch  of 
recent  wea\ing  wliich  makes  no  pretence  to  correspond  with  the  sur- 
roaniiin;:  fabric  citlicr  in  tint  or  texture. 

1 1  i>  indeed  al:no5t  in  our  own  day  that  the  mixed  and  motley 
charac-.cr  of  ilio  raarr:aL:e  law  has  been  chiefly  imparted  to  iL    A 
coaj'le  01  i;cr.eratu:.s  back  it  was  flir  simpler  than  it  is  at  present 
Acc'c.stvuncd  as  wo  nv'w.;ro  to  cniire  freedom  in  all  matters  assodated 
wiih  rcli^^ioi-.s  obs^:var.cc.  it  bcems  strange  to  us  that  the  grand- 
lathers  v'f  i!\o>e  who  .lie  of  p.;.-rr:a^eable  age  to-day,  were  compelled, 
wl;.i:c\cr  tl'.vir  crccvl  or  I.i'k  i-f  creed,  to  marry  according  to  the  rites 
of  :>.c  r.-  rcl:  of  1  r.:lar..:.     Vet  excei  t  the  members  of  two  privi- 
Iv^v.l  1  •  '..<—:/..•  '^w>  ..y.d  ija.ikcrs     all  candidates  for  matrimony 
wcc  x^V.i^v.:  ;    c.^y.-'.y  m!:!:  tl^cse  cor.diiions  up  to  the  year  1837. 
r.'.  c.r'.c.  v:.\<,.:>  ^Ncrwve  k::o\\<.  :::e  most  independent  and  daring 
;:;:;*:ial  •.;u':!-.v\:s  :\iv:  '.  vcr.  v".>covc:cd  ar.d  practised.    During  the  latter 
pa*.t  of  :'.c  >c\c:'.:cc:':!*.  ar.vl  :'.o  firs:  l:a'f  cf  the  eighteenth  centuries, 
..!\   ;.Vv  :  r/..::..v«.^   ::  -  '     ^f  '  \-.-'  c\tcr.:  ar;J  scandalous  character 
l-..;xl  Iw^**.  c.-.rixv'.  V  v.  i/.   1    :.-l.  :.      IT.e  "  licet  Parsons,"  who  had 
tO"  '  v-vv*  •:   t'  c:  /.  ^>  '.  '.^  :.:'.!:>.  i*:;cir  <C:ualid  s  ur  round  in  *:;$,  their 
l^;:^;'.\^'.  v  :  v :» 'v -"C--^     '   •    cf." .  r/.^ry.  are  familiar  fact:;.      But  the 
?;ic\,  >o.;cn  a\     .'.  :'-.cv '.  ;.vl  -a  •  r*.  >cr.:e  J  had  perished  well  nigha 
*•,  "i/.Cx!  \n..:^  *.  c  c'c  ;■  c  c./.:c  r. .:  •./.  .:l\?ve.     By  the  stringent  Mar- 
,  ...^.  \, ;  .  :  1  .  •.!  V  ;'.."x  /.c-   H/.:v'.'»icke,  which  had  become  law  on 
I'e  ■.'.''.  M.-.-v  >.  1  '^  i.  '■'*  v:v^'v'>>v:'>  of  l^igal  matrimony  had  been  so 
x*".^  *\   xIcJ'.vcn^  >o  \xc\:'i:.'v  cntcrccd  Vy  penalties  for  non-com- 
\x'in»\o  t'M«  '^c  v:c\:o"*s  :::c.;vi*..::::es  had  l^eea  crushed     Hence 


Hoitf  the  Peopk  get  Mafrud. 

oniy  three  different  modes  of  marriage,  and  those  well  armed  against 
evasion,  were  generally  ai'ailable  in  England  fifty  years  ago.  These 
were  :— CO  Marriage  by  spedal  licence  of  the  Archbishoji  of  Canter- 
but)' ;  {i)  that  by  common  ecclesiastical  licence;  (3)  that  after 
jjublication  of  banns.  Of  the  three  methods,  marriage  after  banns 
is  the  most  ajjcieot  and  orthodox ;  it  represents  what  lias  been  called 
the  original  fkbrlc  of  the  piece  of  patchwork  under  examination. 
Mamage  by  licence  is  later  and  more  luxurious  ;  it  is  like  an  inser- 
tion of  rich  material  upon  tJie  plainer  stuff  behind.  That  by  special 
licence  dates  in  its  present  fonn  only  from  iJie  sixteenth  century ;  it 
bason  of  seam  over  the  Re  formation -rent,  substituting  his  Grace 
ibe  Archbishop  for  his  Holiness  the  Pope. 

It  may  not  always  be  proof  of  a  grievance  ivhen  somebody  arises 

(orcdicss  one.    But  it  is  generally  allowed  that  Lord  Russell  (Lord 

Jobn  Russell  as  he  was  at  the  lime  in  cjucstion)  had  amjile  jiistifica- 

ftOB  for  his  proceedings  when  in  1836  he  introduced  and  pass<jd  a 

"Masure,  the  object  of  wliich  was  to  add  to  the  modes  of  ui.irriage 

dtKiibed,  and  to  add  to  them  in  such  ways  as  would  meet  the 

Mnis  and  suit  the  spirit  of  the  day.     It  is  to  this  Statute,  which 

I'Kaiiie  law  on  the    1st  July,    1837,    that  most  of  the  variety  now 

lining  as  to  methods  of  espousal  is  attributable.     The  new  pro- 

"sioDsdid  not  efface  the  old.     By  them  the  Church  lost  none  of  her 

■"gills  in  reference  to  marriage ;  it  was  only  that  fresJi  powers  were 

•0  in  motion  to  run  a  race  with  hers,     These  powers  were  created 

•^nly  for  the  relief  of  Roman  Catholics  and  Protestant  Dissenters — 

"c  bodies  to  whom  previous  restrictions  had  been  most  distasitful. 

"WAct  enabled  these  to  marry  on  the  authority  of  a  civil  licence  or 

"*ti6cate  according  to  their  own  forms,  and  in  their  own  chapels. 

■"  ttlso  accommodated  another  class — such  as  might  shrink  from  a 

'^'gious  ceremony  altogetlier,  and  legalised  nuptials  on  the  warrant 

*the  same  documents  by  purely  civil  celebration  in  register-offices. 

^"i!  last  was  its  most  striking  feature;  it  is  what  has  been  likened 

^*°»e  to  a  large  patch  of  incongruous  material  let  daringly  into  the 

""Ottc  of  the  previously  existing  marriage  provisions.     Except  for  a 

■   f^ort  time  in  the  days  of  the  Commonwealili,  when  marriage  before  a 

'^hce  had  been  compulsory— and  tlien  indeed  a  religious  ceremony 

-^    usually   been  perfoimed  tiiher  before  or   after   die    secular 

/fltiaJities — there  had  been  no  previous  authority  in  England  for 

^    espousal,     finally  the  statute  provided  for  the  solemnisation 

**>airiagc  in  ckurdt  on  the  authority  of  the  same  civil  certificate 

**Cli,  as  above  explained,  was  to  be  potent  elsewhere.    Both  the 

i^^^cate  and  ihc  licence  were  to  be  issued  after  notice  duly  given 


1 


-  ■     ■■■■;.      .       .?-.-•■  V  ■  • 


'  ..T— :    -r-..— :.:_i.-  tere.  .-  lie:,  to  be  lis 

..  -..       *  T   ;    L:ri   Riisse'^ls  Act 

-;    :.-.'.    r  —  _  : -r.be:  lerislation 

_.     -     -     -t:.-    "=_::;  ::  v.e  modes  of 

.    -:.:^  :z-_—  ri  _::  England  and 

"  -    ~-.    ■:— -^  r:.?:  ■•eer  is  to'.low:— 

■■    _  -:  =  :    z   ::  '.'r.t  Archbishop 

-  ~    -    r ;  ■ ."  f »  j.?::cji  licence. 

-.*    "•      '--7..-     —.:'■:   or  withoa: 
I"  "   .   -■"-  -B-.th  or  wi:h. 

'     Iz    rj.r:?:c:-omces 

. "    .  >.  ::r  f-Ji-rto.  under 

-  -  .  ;      T--     -:_  .-r:.r.ca:e.  raore- 

.  ■  .      ..-*:;  ~. :  -   15  53  also,  for 

-..■    ■--     --  u=-j::5.    The 

k      ■    ■  «  I 

— .     .         .      -»>Z        k'»0        (.4^*1 

-  "■■•  .      '  '     J,w  '"1'^'J 

■  .     .  :*    If   : :    :  :ev:oi!s 

.    _  _-  r ■.:;,:-■...":?.  whivih  set 

■  -.   -     7. .   "r  ■..'  :n  :!-.e  main 
-.  ..  :■.   -:re'.:er  juri  of 

-     :.:        T-.  -'r.-:  ye:ir  dealt 

-.  :  ■    . :    .z.iT.y  rehearsed 

'--."■  T./..\:  have  bcc:i 

-    <•    ■   -  •  "■*  J      •'.--•      .        -r 

: :.,      ■  ;;  ;i;r'.j:>  solemnised, 

-  ...  ..  V.  ...^   -  r.'v  "^.1 J  ;  to  take 

■       '    : .  :   .  vM-i  :r.  a  d.fi'ercnt  way,  sup- 

..:.;:;;  -i-j :.:  e  i  by  t  h  j  n  umber 

•.:.■:  ir.  ::-.e  j-ropLnion  of  93*4 

.-.    -_  :  ..:j  :.ad  I'^en  no  great  eager- 

.:...:     ::;-:■-•  :he  r.ewlv-created  mar- 

:  -.c  i.^w^r  vear  embraced  in  the 


»  .- . --■  - 


•.■■.::::  A;.-.u:.*  Ke:  o:t.     Tables  4  and  5, 


How  the  People  get  Married.  397 

tables  from  which  quotation  is  being  made,  and  the  forty-first  after 
that  just  referred  to,  a  considerable  change  is  found  to  have  taken 
place.  Of  204,405  marriages  which  then  occurred,  but  146,102  were 
solemnised  by  church  rites,  the  large  remainder  of  58,303  having 
been  otherwise  performed ;  or,  again  to  quote  figiu*es  for  the  better 
expression  of  the  proportions,  church-marriage  stood  at  71  "5  per  cent 
of  all  weddings  celebrated,  and  other  marriage  at  285  per  cent.  The 
proportional  decrease  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  corresponding  increase 
on  the  other,  had  gone  forward  in  the  interval  without  important 
interruption,  the  years  1854,  1855,  and  187 1,  having  been  the  only 
reactionary  ones,  and  those  but  slightly  so.  The  facts,  therefore,  to 
be  noted  at  this  point  with  regard  to  the  forty-two  years'  marriage- 
history  are  :  firstly,  that  church-marriage  altogether,  competing  with 
.all  the  extra- ecclesiastical  means  of  union  created  by  the  Act  of 
1836,  lost  during  those  years  to  the  extent  of  21*9  percent,  on  the 
annual  total  of  marriages  performed  ;  and  secondly,  that  this  loss  was 
incurred  by  a  steady  retrog'"ession  covering  almost  the  whole  period 
in  question.  Any  inference  from  these  facts,  however,  as  to  the 
numerical  relations  between  Churchmen  and  non-Churchmen  must 
be  drawn  with  caution.  It  is  certain  that  in  hymeneal  matters  a  large 
exchange  goes  on  between  the  two  divisions  ;  but  which  division,  if 
either,  reaps  an  ultimate  advantage  in  matrimonial  numbers  from 
this  series  of  transactions,  is  not  known.  In  some  places  there 
still  lingers  a  sentiment  in  favour  of  church-marriage  among  Wes- 
leyans  and  other  Nonconformists ;  in  others,  Churchmen  marry 
at  register-offices  for  the  sake  of  convenience  or  privacy.  Among 
the  masses  many  are  determined  in  their  choice  of  marriage-methods 
simply  by  the  consideration  of  cheapness  ;  and  the  pecuniary  condi- 
tions have  been  sometimes  most  favourable  on  one  side,  and  some- 
times on  the  other.  It  is  impossible  to  estimate  the  extent  of  such 
influences  ;  their  results  may  therefore  preponderate  in  either  direc- 
tion, or  possibly  in  neither. 

Some  particulars  shall  now  be  given  as  to  the  two  classes  of 
marriage  thus  generally  remarked  on ;  and  church -espousal  shall  be 
taken  first  The  tables  already  consulted  show — after  correction  has 
been  made  for  unexplained  cases — that  in  1841,  marriage  by  special 
licence  and  other  ecclesiastical  licence  together  was  in  the  proportion 
of  1 5 '6  per  hundred  of  all  marriages  solemnised;  that  banns-marriage 
was  76*9  per  cent ;  and  that  by  Superintendent  Registrar's  certificate, 
o*9  per  cent  [It  is  not  necessary  to  trouble  the  reader,  in  this  case, 
with  the  actual  numbers  of  weddings.]  The  proportions  for  1882 — 
to  compare  again  the  years  compared  before — arc,  licence -marriage, 


-  —    -"  T— -^'Tf/.^r  s  J'Sz  r2s:%f. 


■"■'—"-  - — ^ — '      '       --    izrf.zzLze.  r;.  Foi 

~   -  "'  -"-  ■  -   -■      ■  '  vr  'jir.  iieni  cssis  an 

~-    ""■■^-.1     :.:  i"-r  fr-res  iTf  also 
■  --    -  ---"  --    ;-  :    iizTziizz  bnvc  ihe 

.-.     .    —    '-jr-  -  :   1^    r    :>Jii-i .  :_-...     Tr.:5 15  C'lher- 

■     •  —  -    —   -     .     .       .      _  .*    ...     1*  ...    <■'.!* 

■.  •  ""•-■-  ■••J"*     r.  ■  a 

_.  ~  "  •-.-.  —_..•._  _._^,j^„»         If, 

-'    -  ;    -    -"  _•    :^   —  ijji!  "iccrces 
■     ■         -  —        I'-Ti  -r_-i5r_.-~."5.i^2,5>. 

—       '-  -  "         "  -  -     "—  I  »  .1."    rl.  2i  ~"  -~  *     -—■"■•-  •'-.la  ^T* 

■     -  ■ -■=;■- -:~~:- ■!■:,. itiiisticcl 

'  ■   -         ■  :  ■ '       ~.  -  ■        If  -•   I.:  i  :>  --5^  :;•■  binTJS 

...        >-:- -J^  :f  :.:.  i;>cr:::::n5:  th2i 

•L^-.  r::    _:— .:fii  i-i  :'-zi    ::  bzncs- 

-      -*     ". -  '  .  .-■ '  _:■-  h'?  5:c-  :;  diminu- 

«■■   -.        -":^   :-r.J  ::-   :":rei5e  in 

-    --.:::-■-::  hiv>^ been  iri;? 

•  ■*     -■•-•.--     ■-.--.-..  •-.■^^.ir^ -,-  • 

■    -  ■  :■_— -^.-    r.c  ::"  fv^rper cent. 

.:-■-"      I".    •  ev.i— :.  :!:erefore.  thit 

•  ■  ■     ■■  -     ■.       '-.^  .i".i>  ■-"  c:r.cr  iiireciions, 

•  ■ 

-    -"  -      .         ■--  -       -"  :    ■"  -  7-r:.:"j.;.r  ch-rch  form  tobe 

.-..     - .         :   -:    •-     '-:    :.■.-_:  .L-    I:":^:!!  be  reiv.exberedby 

:.       .      ":  "      .    :   :  7... ':?  r;:-.-.TcJ  to  bcrin.esDOUsal 

:     .  .    .    .    .  .  ".   ; .     .7    ?:....'-■.:..  J     :l:e  ::5 he r'f?  or   suiroiratc's 

.  . :  ■  - ,  -  _>  :  .  .-.:.::..  :v. : :  -  : f  r/:.rr:r...e.  .in.i  th.it  it  continued 
::  .vi  >:  :::  —:r:  ;.  .irr  ..■."rer:'.::^:^.  To  Ic  -asked"  in  church  was 
■;:  :>.;-.  .jr.?  iiTc:.  ::  l^-  :*.j  ::-:r.j.  cxcej :  for  ser\*ant  girls,  artisans, 
:r..:  y':.  c'/.vir.     F.::  w;:r,  :r.e  ceveacpment  o(  High-Church  princi- 

S-V"'"'-  '■■  -■^'■='  >'■•}■•''■ -T  A'-.--?.!  Report.     Tabic  B. 


How  the  People  get  Married.  3^ 

pies  the  upper  and  middle  classes  came  gradually  to  prefer  banns ; 
and  it  is  probably  these  classes,  under  the  influence  mentioned,  that 
turned  the  tide  in  favour  of  this  more  orthodox  marriage-method 
some  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  with  the  subsequent  results  noted. 

The  history  of  the  civil  certificate  as  a  means  of  obtaining  church 
nuptials  is  not  a  brilliant  one.  It  appears  from  the  table  last  referred 
to  that  in  every  five-years  period  from  1841-5  to  186 1-5  inclusive, 
the  employment  of  the  certificate  in  church  slightly  increased  rela- 
tively to  the  use  of  church  marriage-modes  altogether,  the  proportion 
of  this  method  to  all  ecclesiastical  methods  then  reaching  3*12  per 
cent. ;  but  that  afterwards  a  decline  set  in  which  brought  the  figures 
down  to  2*47  in  1876-80,  while  the  single  year  1882  produced  of 
this  class  of  weddings  a  proportion  of  only  2*41  per  cent,  of  all 
ecclesiastically  solemnised.  In  its  relation  to  all  descriptions  of 
espousal  the  method  of  church-marriage  by  certificate  attracted  with 
tolerable  steadiness  a  slightly  increasing  proportion  of  couples  firom 
1841  to  1856  inclusive.  But  in  the  following  year  it  began  to  receive 
less  usage  relatively  to  all  marriage  provisions ;  and  with  some 
pauses  and  one  or  two  recoveries  this  declining  tendency  has  pro- 
ceeded ever  since.  The  clergy  never  generally  approved  the  lay 
certificate  as  introductory  to  church  marriage-rites  ;  and  by  a  statute 
which  came  into  operation  on  the  ist  January,  1857,*  they  acquired 
what  amounts  to  a  right  of  veto  on  its  issue  for  church  use,  for 
under  that  Act  no  marriage  by  virtue  of  the  certificate  can  be 
solemnised  in  a  church  of  the  Church  of  England  without  the  con- 
sent of  the  clergyman.  It  is  evident  that  this  right  has  been 
exercised.  Nevertheless,  in  some  places  the  nuptial  method  in 
question  has  met  with  direct  clerical  approval  as  a  means  of  securing 
church-marriage  in  some  form  for  those  shrinking  from  the  publicity 
of  banns — for  notice  to  the  civil  officer  involves  in  many  districts  far 
less  notoriety  than  do  three  "  askings  "  in  church. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  older  marriage-methods,  with  their  am- 
biguous appendage  last  referred  to  ;  now  for  the  newer.  It  will  be 
well  in  the  first  place  to  say  something  separately  of  the  weddings  of 
Roman  Catholics.  The  modes  available  for  this  body  from  a  legal 
point  of  view  are  shared  by  many  and  diverse  religious  communities. 
But  the  strict  adherence  given  by  the  Roman  Catholic  to  the  matri- 
monial requirements  of  his  church  places  his  marriage  procedure  on 
an  exceptional  footing.  He  uses  the  civil  certificate,  or  in  a  few 
cases  the  civil  licence,  as  his  legal  wedding  warrant ;  but  then  the 
banns  must  be  published,  or  the  episcopal  dispensation  obtained 

'  19  &  20  Vict.  c.  119,  sec.  II. 


The  Gentleman  s  j 

also.  Under  no  circumstances  would  these  be  overlooked.  His 
amenability  to  religious  authority  keeps  him  too,  for  the  most  {art, 
from  wandering  into  foreign  matrimonial  methods  even  should  he 
wish  to  do  so  ;  and  while,  as  has  been  seen,  the  members  of  most 
other  religious  bodies  often  rove  for  marriage  puqioses  into  alien 
territory,  he  almost  always  stays  at  home,  and  marries  as  his  pri« 
directs.  This  gi\-es  to  the  figures  concerning  Roman  Catholic 
espousals  a  special  interest.  It  implies  that  those  figures,  «hen 
viewed  in  their  relation  to  the  general  marriage  figures  of  the  countTT, 
convey  an  idea— not  indeed  to  be  too  literally  interpreted,  bmstill 
of  much  value,  and  one  that  is  jirobably  answering  to  the  realir? 
more  nearly  every  year— as  to  ihe  proportion  home  by  the  Ronuo 
Catholic  body  to  the  community  at  large.  In  the  first  five  yl•ar^iwittl 
which  the  before  quoted  tables  deal,  viz.,  1S41-5,  Roman  Catholic 
weddings  were  not  enumerated  separately  from  those  of  Pro  I  esla.-it  Dis- 
senters. The  year  1S46  shall  therefore  be  ihe  starling  point  from  whi'* 
to  note  the  figures.  In  that  year  Roman  Catholic  marriages  itetc  ia 
the  proportion  of  z'l  to  the  100  performed  in  England  and  Wales  lr( 
all  methods  ;  in  1851  the  proportion  was  4*3  to  100  ;  in  1356, 47' 
in  1861,  4'8;  in  1866,  47  ;  in  1871.  4'o;  in  1876,4*2  ;  anditiejcli 
of  the  years  1881  and  1882,  4'5.  Some  readers  may  hke  to  folio* 
the  actual  numbers  in  the  years  referred  to,  which  present  themaelvM 
thus  :  in  1846,  3,037  out  of  145,664  marriages  were  those  of  RomaB 
Catholics;  in  1851,  6,570  out  of  fS4,io6;  in  1S56,  7,527  oat  of 
159,337  ;  it'  i86r,  7,782  out  of  163,706  ;  in  1S66,  8,911  out  01 
187,776  ;  in  1871,  7,647  out  of  190,112  ;  in  1S76,  8,577  out  » 
201,874;  in  i88t,  8,784  out  of  197,290;  and  in  18S2,  9,235  out  of 
204,405.  It  will  be  obser\'ed  thai  while  Roman  Catholic  mani*S'^ 
were  more  numerous  than  ever  in  1882,  they  had  been  in  highW 
proportion  to  marriages  in  general  in  three  previous  years  of  llw* 
mentioned,  viz.,  in  1856,  1861,  and  1866.  The  highest  propcat""" 
ever  reached  was  in  1S53,  when  these  weddings  were  5-1  to  the  nft 
or  8,375  out  of  164,520. 

Marriage  in  the  registered  chapels  of  Protestant  dissenters  doe* 
not  differ  as  to  the  legal  processes  involved  from  that  in  ihe buildiop 
of  Roman  Catholics  ;  but  its  celebration  there  does  not  always  imply 
the  employment  of  any  religious  service,  and  indeed  there  is  no  ^S"" 
necessity  for  any  at  a  marriage  in  a  Roman  Catholic  chapel,  thoug'' 
usage  invariably  supplies  it  in  the  latter  case.  In  1S46— loW'" 
again  at  the  point  from  which  a  commencement  was  made  in  the  W 
instance— the  marriages  under  consideration,  with  which  are  includ'* 
those  of  Jews  and  Quakers  (always  few  in  number),  were  ii 


How  the  People  get  Marfied.  491 

portion  to  all  marriages  performed  of  5*4  per  cent.  The  corresponding 
figures  for  1851  were  6*4;  those  for  1856  were  63 ;  and  those  for 
1 86 1  reached  8*2 — a  large  increase,  to  be  accounted  for  presently. 
The  year  1866  gave  9*4';  1871  gave  10*2;  1876,  ir2;  and  1881  and 
1882  each  11-4 — an  addition  of  6*o  per  cent  to  the  figures  of  1846, 
when  7,961  couples  out  of  145,664  had  been  married  under  the 
conditions  in  question  ;  while  in  1882  the  number  of  these  weddings 
was  23,351  out  of  a  total  of  204,405.  Lord  RusselFs  Act  before- 
mentioned  had  provided  that  notices  of  marriage  given  to  a  civil 
officer  should  be  read  aloud  before  boards  of  guardians.  This  provision 
had  been  exceedingly  unpopular.  And  no  wonder.  What  Damon 
would  care  that  his  intended  union  to  Amaryllis  should  be  discussed 
together  with  workhouse  dietaries,  lunatic  removals,  and  pauper 
coffins  ?  But  the  statute  already  referred  to,  which  began  to  work 
in  1857,  repealed  the  offensive  requirement ;  and  notice-publication 
has  since  been  effected  othen^ise.  It  was  this  change,  no  doubt, 
that  gave  so  strongly-marked  an  impulse  to  the  class  of  marriages 
now  under  consideration,  between  1856  and  1861.  It  operated 
similarly  upon  register- office  weddings,  but  not  at  all  upon  Roman 
Catholic  espousals — a  proof  that  the  Roman  Catholic,  in  matrimonial 
affairs,  fixes  his  chief  attention  upon  ecclesiastical  rather  than  civil 
requirements,  and  does  not  greatly  care  what  the  latter  may  be  so 
that  they  allow  him  free  scope  for  compliance  with  the  former. 
Among  Dissenters  the  licence-method  of  chapel-marriage  is  no\y 
what  the  Surrogate's  licence-method  was  among  Churchmen  forty 
years  ago — the  genteel  way  of  being  wed.  It  is  largely  resorted  to 
by  the  wealthier  classes  of  nonconformity  ;  while  the  humbler  ranks 
find  in  the  civil  certificate  an  authority  for  chapel- marriage  better 
suited  to  their  shorter  purses,  or  sometimes,  in  quest  of  further 
cheapness,  invoke  that  authority  for  purely  secular  esix)usal. 

Finall)'',  something  must  be  told  as  to  marriage  performed  in 
register-offices.  The  process  to  be  considered  is,  as  the  reader 
will  remember,  wholly  civil  both  as  to  introductory  forms  and 
actual  celebration.  It  was  clearly  the  intention  of  Lord  Russell's 
Act  that  such  should  be  the  case ;  and  in  the  statute  which 
came  into  force  in  1857  the  use  of  any  religious  ceremony  at 
register-office  marriages  was  expressly  forbidden.  The  docu- 
mentary marriage- instruments  here  are  the  before-named  civil 
licence  and  certificate.  In  1841  the  proportion  of  this  variety  of 
marriage-process  to  all  descriptions  was  as  17  to  100 — 2,064  wed- 
dings out  of  122,496  taking  place  in  the  offices  during  that  year. 
Five  years  later  some  advance  appears,  the  figures  for  1846  standing 


*    _ 


-  ii  Zizs'cK^HS  Magazine. 

t::::-.-:    '.-.-:,  i.:::  c -::f  1^5,664.     IniSsithe 

.  .  - :-    -rr. — T  r:;  ::   ifj^rco;  and  in  185611  vas 

"-   '  '    ':'::*      I-  -*e  course  of  the  nextfiveyean 

:     ...T^':  :.-  :;   *  ::::=-t  Jilicauon  already  spoken  of 

: .  -_  :     :s      :-  I  .-.:?:'  r  the  proportion  of  purdy 

: .  T  -.— _:^-.?  -^   7  J  :n  100,  the  numbers  for 

'  -':        : ; ;  - :  ■      Ir.  :  i : . .  S'  i  f<T  cent,  or  15,246 

-  -  ■    -  -  ■"-■-;  -■-"-  r^^L  ir.  rc-jister  ofnces  :  in  i8;i, 
•r  .  ,:  ;.':-:  ::-:  !-    i>:o.   12 -3  per  cent, or 

:       --     .-.    I'f:.  ::  .'   --r  -li-r.:.,  or   r^,o?5  out  of 
i  r-    i  -:  -:r::.r.  :i=  fn  the  pre\'ious  vear, 

-.If:  .:   :t  ;:-•  .::::-  of  rej^ister-officemar* 

•:i:-   ■_.  r.-  ic^ri   :r-:.::i    17  in  184110 

:      ■:.:::::  J.'.   r.::r7!:j:-s  performed,  and 

-  -  ■-.     •     .--     •  ;:'  .':.:.r..\  riirriaces  in  the  same 
:•  :■      -  .:  ::r.: ,  i:  :'.llj'.v5  tiiat  nearlv  half 

"   ;  ."■_:."■.■..:-  ".ti-n  .1; proj-riated  by  the 

•..■.:■■"'"■-'  :'.: :re  t>.j.n  half— />.,  11*0 

.    ■      :    -:    ,. : r.  .1*  ^ ::'. \; .1   Ln*   the  modes  of 

:  :■-".  i*?  .ir.d  ProtosiJ.nt  Dissenting 

-.   :  .'--  >"-  :-i  «^-.-<ir  luoihods,  affecting  bat 

■  ■        «       «    « 

■  , '-/I  '—"^ 

'. .      ■  :     -7  '.:.-:.::  *i5  50-. "i  :..■>  be  g-iining  on  the 
i       ::       -   -  ..:e   :".j   Ci'r'.rdtion  takes  place  in 
■^  :   :  :-     :!.--:?.-  ;:"  c-:  ru^.il  were  resorted  to  in  the 
.  .   .•-.;-:.-  : .  ■ .-. : :  -  ^  to  c  J.ch  the n  stan  d i ng  alike  at 
:  ■  ^:: .  .>: ::  ^  :.  jc : ::::  ':>;:od.     In  the  following  year 
•  -^j  :.v.  .:-.:..■.  •.  f  c/.;/ el  marriage,  and  stood  to  it 
:'  : :  r  : '  : :  .  ;  :7  c.t.:.  cf  espousals  altogether  ;  and 
.". :  :^>r  the  proportions  were:  register- 
0  "•  /  J  ::: .-. :  r . .: .:  - .   :  :  ?  ;  -  r  c  v  r.  t. ,  •.  '1 .::  e  \  -  marriage,  1 1  '4  per  cent.    If 
:!-.o  ;  Ts-^i^.t  v.'"./:.:  .  :>  c.  ::.:.■.:.  :;  c\:st.  the  riirares  representing  these 
two  c!.;s<i>  of  ::.:::■ :::.-:-.:..'.   :v.:h-^Oo  are  likely  to  go  apart  much 
fi:::h.vr  \\\  t'.o  c  tjc::ov.>  !',:r;.^  :::iija:ed.     In  the  first  place,  marriage 
i-i    :!".i*    reciNt^r-off.co    is  ?.  c!:ca;er  article  than  that   in  a  chapeL 
As   Lis  .:;lro.idy  been   sMieJ,   i!iis   fict   alone   now  often    induces 
di>>cntors  o\  tl:e   j w^rer  class  to  leave  their  places  of  worship  for 
marriaiio  purposes,  and  celebrate  their  nuptials  before  the  civil  officer. 
It  would  seem  too,  that  the  ministers  of  dissenting  congregations  do 
not  desire  in  all  cases  to  check  the  existing,  and  probably  increasing 
tendency  among  their  flocks  to  regard  marriage  as  a  purely  civil  con- 


.  N 


's. 


He  giHrn^md. 


It  haa  been  hinted  before,  and  must  be  dwelt  on  here,  that 
espousals  celebrated  in  dissenting  chapels,  many  take  pi; 
absence  of  any  minister,  and  some  without  any  religious  ceremony 
le^-er.     These  cases  have  not  been  distinguished  in  the  foregoing 

s,  nor  can  the  proportion  which  they  bear  to  other  cases  be 

1  with  accuracy.     Such  procedure  arises,  sometimes  because 

is  no  resident  minister  at  the  place  where  the  wedding  is  per- 
somelimes  because  the  resident  minister  does  not  think  It 

isary  to  attend,  and  sometimes  because  bride  and  bridegroom  do 
care  to  summon  him.     All  this  points  to  some  apathy  on  the 

both  of  pastors  and  people  as  to  the  religious  portion  of  the 
ceremony  ;  and  the  same  spirit  operating  more  openly  no 

)t  helps  to  increase  the  numbers  of  register- office  weddings,  at 
expense  of  those  in  the  chapels. 

"Thus  much  having  been  said  of  secular  marriage  in  its  relation  to 
imode  of  nuptial  celebration,  involving  more  or  less — but  some- 
B  next  to  nothing — in  the  way  of  compliance  with  religious 
eivance,  a  few  words  upon  it  may  be  added,  as  it  stands  related 
rbat  may  be  styled  rilij^'ons  marriage  in  general.  The  writer  has 
\  possessed  facilities  for  studymg  the  reasons  which  mostly  lead 
iple  to  adopt  it  in  preference  to  espousal  with  religious  rites,  and 
cm  state  these  reasons  with  some  confidence.  They  arc  (i) 
Iple  unwillingness  to  make  any  approach  to  a  profession  of 
I.  There  are  multitudes  of  sailors,  miners,  artisans,  and 
who  usually  attend  no  place  of  worship,  and  who,  therefore, 
not  like  to  visit  one  for  the  purpose  of  getting  married.     It  may 

be  that  honest  dread  of  hypocrisy  is  among  the  feelings  of  such 

lie  on  the  subjecL  (2)  Adesire  for  privacy.  The  lawyer's  office 
'Other  place  of  business  usually  constituting  the  register- office, 

Is  for  the  most  part  a  more  propitious  scene  for  marriage 
be  unobsen-ed  than  does  a  church  or  chapel.  The  desire 
privacy  may,  of  course,  arise  from  different  causes,  but  by  far  the 
W  common  cause  is  that  the  patties  to  the  marriage  already  st.ind 
Och  other  in  the  relations  of  man  and  wife,  and  are  anxious  to 
nt  by  an  unnoticed  legal  union  the  woman's  impending  disgrace. 

Economical  considerations.  This  source  of  register-office  marriage 
■already  been  spoken  of  in  a  forecast  of  its  future  as  compared 
ll  that  of  chapel  marriage.  But/rfj  were  there  mainly  referred  to. 
en  incidental  expenses  are  taken  into  account  also,  espousal  at 
register-office  is  frequently  the  cheapest  variety  of  nuptial  cele- 
lion  that  can  be  resorted  to.  For  working  men  will  marry  there 
"lout  losing  even  half  a  day's  work,  and  without  buying  so  much 


1 


404 


The  Genileman^s  Magazine. 


as  a  new  necktie.  They  will  meet  their  brides  in  working  dress  at 
the  register-otVicc  door  during  the  "  breakfast  half  hour,"  part  from 
them  as  soon  as  the  brief  ceremony  of  civil  marriage  is  over,  and  go 
back  to  workshop  or  factory  for  the  rest  of  the  day.'  Even  in  less 
extreme  cases  the  outlay  on  dress,  festivities,  and  treating  at  register- 
oftice  weddings  is,  or  may  be,  almost  ///7.  In  cases  of  marriage  at 
cliurch  or  chapel  it  is  dillicult  for  couples,  even  of  humblest  rank,  to 
avoid  expense  in  these  directions.  To  such  as  would  transform  into 
religious  nuptials  any  portion  of  the  i2*6  per  cent,  of  marriages 
which  in  1.S.S2  were  found  to  be  taking  place  by  wholly  ci\il  means, 
thcfc  causes  of  secular  matrimony  are  worthy  of  attention. 

No  statistics  are  in  existence  which  can  disclose  the  compaiaure 
results,  sueial  and  domestic,  of  marriage  by  the  different  methods 
referred  to  in  tills  paper.     It  is  not  known  which  variety  of  malri- 
inoni.il  bond  is  most  respected,  or  which  is  most  liable  to  disruptiwi; 
which— if  either — especially  conduces  to  conjugal  felicity  and  iamilj 
union,  i^r  which  to  their  opposites.     lUit  a  large  majority  of  the 
people  i»f  r-ni;lind  are  at  present— as  is  clear  from  the  forcing 
lii^ures—ionvinied  of  so  much  as  this  on  the  matter — that  marriage 
\\\\\\  re]ij;A'-.:s  >.UKiion  is  preferable  to  that  without  it.    It  may  be  in- 
ferrevi  t:\it  tb.ey  h.old  the  former  to  be  more  trustworthy  than  the  bller 
— of  1  le.irer  j  roiuise  and  brighter  augur)-.     To  this  view  the  writer 
luMiiily  ^ul^sv  ril>cs.     T.;::  all  who  do  so  should  be  careful  not  to  lose 
>i^lu  of  tl.e  iir.dovil'tedly  i:ood  results  arising  from  existing  provisiom 
as  to  i  iv;I  nurri^ue,  by  means  cf  which  large  numbers  of  persons  are 
po!N;:.u:ed  to  j  '..:v\-  liieir  illicit  connections  on  a  legal  footing,  and  to 
<vv ;.:e  :v^  iV.cir  ^  ffsj  rin.:  the  adv.'.nta^es  of  legitimate  birth.     Bare, 
*\vv!.  .iv.v*.  v>.ce:'.cs<  ir.deed  10  most  of  us  would  the  civil  celebration 
sv.".v,  .    ;':v'  »  .::   :"^::ns  of  de^.'. ar.it ion   an«l  contract  ;    the  missing 
I'l.iXv:  .::  v*.  Iwcvii.  '.ior.  :  the  sccu'ar  ctr.ce  in  i)lace  of  the  sanctuary 
1 ' .. :  : ' '. V :  v  i s  rec  v'  ::c i!e r.: en:  even  to  these  unattractive  cod- 
■.'  :'.v*  :':*.%;.:!•:  : '..■.:  :/.ey  n\;y,  and  do  often,  promote  the  repair 

'. 0 : \:  r ^  c v' .. ::  i:  ion  c f  j us:  claims,  and  stay  the 
::;..i:::\:   ;'.:e   fair  forehead   of   roanv  an 


/;  V'v\*.. 


1 1  %.. 


'I  \v:s".;' 


•    P«       V        «     ■«       ft 

lftftl\«      k*     ^ 


\       ft .  ■    \«      V    • 


•  l*«        l-»ft«p 


•ftftft     ^'     >ift.        * 
\     «    \  •      V 


.V    • 


c.IWARr*    WHIT.XKFR. 


\ 


'-'.  ■::.'./'.'  .VfVi":."«^i 


.> 


405 


SCIENCE  NOTES. 

Soluble  Iron  Salt  as  a  Manure. 

IN  a  note  (June  1883)  I  stated  some  of  the  results  obtained  by 
Mr.  A.  B.  Griffiths  by  watering  Savoy  cabbages  with  a  solution 
of  iron  sulphate.  They  were  curious,  but  as  I  said  at  the  time,  "  a 
much  larger  number  of  experiments  will  be  necessary  "  to  confirm 
them,  by  proving  that  the  superiority  of  the  cabbages  thus  manured 
is  really  due  to  this  addition  to  the  soil. 

Mr.  Griffiths  has  since  made  such  additional  experiments,  and 
read  before  the  Chemical  Society  a  paper  stating  his  results  in  detail. 
This  paper  is  published  in  the  January  number  of  the  Society's 
Journal,  and  is  very  interesting.  The  experiments  extend  to  a 
number  of  food  plants,  grain,  root  crops,  and  leguminous  plants.  I 
must  not  attempt  to  give  any  details  here.  The  following  is  a 
summary  of  general  conclusions  : — 

I.  The  iron  manure  is  specially  beneficial  to  plants  that 
develop  a  large  amount  of  chlorophyll — beans,  cabbages,  turnips, 
being  especially  named.  2.  The  iron  manure  increases  the 
percentage  of  carbohydrates,  woody  fibre  and  fat,  in  certain  plants 
as  a  result  of  the  increase  of  chlorophyll  in  the  leaf.  3.  Mr.  Griffiths 
finds  crystals  of  ferrous  sulphate  near  the  chlorophyll  granules  in 
sections  of  the  leaves  of  the  plants  thus  manured.  4.  In  certain 
cases  the  phosphoric  acid  of  the  ashes  of  the  plants  increases  with 
the  ferric  oxide.  5.  Excess  of  this  iron  manure  acts  as  poison  to 
the  plant  6.  The  sulphur  of  ferrous  sulphate  acts  as  food  for  the 
protoplasm  of  the  cell,  and  the  iron  for  the  chlorophyll  itself.  7.  This 
manure,  to  some  extent,  increases  the  nitrogen  in  the  plants.  8.  It 
increases  the  chlorophyll  of  the  leaves.  9.  It  acts  on  the  soil  as  an 
antiseptic  agent. 

These  results  are  the  more  remarkable  as,  with  the  exception  of 
the  5th,  they  contradict  some  old  established  chemical  notions 
respecting  the  mischievous  action  of  soluble  iron  salts  in  the  soil. 
These  salts  are  usually  described  as  forming  insoluble  compounds 
with  the  phosphoric  acid  of  otherwise  soluble  phosphates,  and  thus 
depriving  the  plant  of  the  phosphatic  element  of  its  nourishmefit 


TIh  ^ !"»"  rruT  CUB  p^^***^,  BcvectfadcH^  Int  (nl|r  in  cunvnGB 
of  rcoB.  sue  pnrvaSs.    It  is  qake  evident  tbat  dui  nuant 
be  I'gg*^  wicL  ^-'*' "'"■*:  and  also  vith  inlriHgence,«iidfliit,if<ii 


to  be  pactkaHf  a^pSed,  it  addi  anodier  to  the  eTer-iiiu(iH| 
bdifbr  d!e  y^^^wrffV  edocatkia  erf*  CKxr 


Tlxe   £roiL   *=*'*•   bi    qoeslioa    is   s   wjBte-ptodnct    of   MMM 
fWfM-iTM  riirifij  tsFooessci.  and  dietc£xc  can.  be  obtained  in  gpBi 
jLi  x  lev  pEke.    The  exisdng  aiqiplies  may  be  smlll|| 


if  ce=ai:*5^* 


Thi  Glowing  Twilights. 

■ 

PERi:EVER.\NCE  Is  Tisoally  rewonled  with  success,  but  Ai 
Lis  zLirilj  been  the  case  with  the  propounders  and  defendoi 
of  the  Krzkiroa  expLizuaoa  of  the  twiligbt  glows,  althouj^  tt(| 
(both  glows  ar.l  defenders)  hare  manifested  that  virtue  anuuii^ 
Oniin.i'T  nicr:j.Is  wouM  have  repeated  when  it  was  found  that  hmmI 
after  nion:h.  and  fj.r  into  a  second  year,  the  morning  and  evenii|| 
disx^'-ays  c:r.:Lr.ucd  'wIil-.-iui^batemenL  Such  ordinary  mortal^  a& 
•  :uaintei  with  ordinary  Just,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  falls  up0i 
their  clothe  >,  their  books,  their  eve lyihings,  even  through  themiinq 
dense  lower  atmosphere,  would  have  concluded  that  volcanic  dfll 
would  still  more  rapidly  fall  through  the  very  much  thinner  air,  Ac 
nearly  vacuous  space  wherein  the^characteristic  after-glows  occundj 
but  not  so  the  Krakatoans. 

They  maintain  that  the  molecular  viscosity  of  gases  has  be* 
demonstrated  mathematically  to  continue  in  spite  of  rarefaction,  n^ 
therefore  the  rarefied  air  must  resist  the  shearing  penetmtion  of  th 
dust  i)articles  in  their  downfall  as  effectually  as  would  a  denser  atao 
sphere.  Actual  experiments  with  actual  dust  in  actually  rarefied  li 
show  that  actual  facts  contradict  this  mathematical  demonstiatiol 
"  So  much  the  worse  for  the  facts,"  reply  the  modem  represcntiti»< 
of  the  schoolmen.  The  disciples  of  Bacon  still  suspend  judgment  OH 
cerning  the  cause  or  causes  of  these  unusual  displays. 

As  I  stated  in  my  notes  of  February  and  March  last  year,  U 
alternative  explanations  really  worthy  of  serious  consideration  a 
first,  the  supposition  that  the  earth,  and  possibly  the  whole  or 
large  portion  of  the  solar  system,  has  in  the  course  of  its  journey 
space  i)assed  through  a  region  unusually  rich  in  meteoric  dust;ti 
second,  that  an  unusually  large  amount  of  aqueous  vapour  has  bc< 

raised  to  the  upper  regions  of  our  atmosphere  by  increased  sol 
Activity, 


Science  Notes.  40? J 

Solid  particles  are  required  to  produce  the  effect,  and  these  ai  i 

t  elevaiioQ.  The  meteoric  theory  supplies  them  directly ;  the 
r  theory  also  supplies  them,  though  not  quite  so  obviously, 
ming  the  existence  of  such  vapour  at  such  elevations,  it  would 

^ndensed  and  frozen  immediately  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun  were 
a  his  descent  below  the  horiion,  or  even  before  this,  i.e., 

pi  these  rays  uere  filtered  and  refracted  by  their  passage  through 
Dser  horizon  atmosphere.  i 

a  the  "Garetta  Chimita  Italiana"  (Vol.  14,  p.  130-136)151  ] 
t  l^  F.  Maugiui,  which  affords  some  additional  evidence  in 
pit  of  the  meteoric  theory.  He  refers  to  Yung,  who,  in  Cieneva, 
'  to  NordeQsVjold,  who,  in  Stockholm,  observed  the  presence  of 
n  meteoiic  dust  that  fell  on  snow,  and  describeswhat  he  himself 
datReggio,  in  Calabria,  onthei6ih  and  igih  February,  and 
Majch,  1S84,  when  the  glowing  phenomena,  accompanied  by 
were  specially  remarkable.  He  there  collected  some  newly- 
t  red-coloured  dust,  which,  when  e.^amined  under  the  micro- 
e^  seemed  to  consist  of  mica,  quartz,  and  irregular  polyhedric 
lljs.  A  preliminary  analysis  showed  this  to  contain  :  magnetic 
oxide  6-4  per  cent.  ;  matter  insoluble  in  acids,  3875  per  cent ; 
ler  soluble  in  acids,  54-85  per  cent. 

the  insoluble  poitlon  contained  sulphuric  and  phosphoric  acids, 
I,  calcittm,  magnesium,  arscnious  and  ferric  oxides  ;  the  soluble 
lion,  aluminum,  nickel,  and  manganous  oxides.  There  were 
Es  of  nickel,  but  no  cobalt. 
It  WAS  not  dust  from  Etna,  as  the  direction  of  the  wind  on  the 
lonwhidi  it  fell  w.ts  opposite  to  that  from  Etna,  and  besides 
\.  Oie  volcanic  ashes  from  Etna,  well  known  thereabouts,  are  black. 
I  Sahara  dust  carried  by  the  sirocco  contains  no  iron. 
Excepting  in  colour,  this  dust  corresponds  very  closely  to  that 
Ji  I  collected  by  melting  the  snow  that  fell  in  my  garden  on  the 
■  and  6th  of  December,  1883.  The  sooty  particles  also  in  the 
',  which  rendered  the  snow-water  itself  somewhat  inky,  may 
It  for  the  darker  colour  of  the  "  bhck  and  brown  gritty  par- 
"  which  I  collected  by  thawing  tlie  snow,  (See  Geutkman'i 
\  Febnian',  1884,  p.  199.) 


Aristocratic  Lineage  ok  the  Scorpion. 

NE  of  my  notes  of  December,  iS8i,bore  the  same  title  as  this, 

I  there  described  a  patriarchal  specimen  of  this  elongated 

tomous  spider  that  was  found  in  the  lower  carboniferous  rocks. 


1 


-jLi  ;  JfjL^d^'tu, 


andthenloie 


and  cxtcndod  bf 
UH  '*g"  IE  isB^  :*i:jjHTng  snl  l:<vc5-  dam  m  die  geologkal 

c  Srnran;^  -riiarr  aaz  sse  DensoiaiB,  ^  old  ml 
-feriT'^i'tTn  ▼TiiT  IPS  rE^  lestB     iw  imr3  to  xiqprd  as  the  bbdipU 
'L  txif  mis:  HH"rTr  snz  zst  na: 


^iizcsr  Tw'"!!  inins  J2r?  Tipffft  looBil  m 

isri  TL  IJBBBStssst:  19  Jiuic;,  I S83,  aoodwril  J 


irtfT,  z:  '^j^^    n:  isf  Tshm*    if  Grs^IisKL  las  soamicr.    Thoe 
nmf  X  irrt^  ~:»n:  :7i.*r  T»y  IrV.  Ijea  f:x  cas^xmfcroas  and  exbbig 


nrr-.   V-  :•  r^z  Gi-:i  oical  Record. 


IT  giTinr  iL-vTTf  2e  raiicrb=r?f  ^iii  &e  fossO  lemains  of  lal  j 
rTnn5Tr«e^  g;*  aerssszrlTipjK  are  T^a'n  laose  rf  marine,  laoMtiiie^ ' 
^r  r.-t»-r  niTTr.f's  izii  tbiz  rari-x  lisd  ^sTi^roaU  those  that  liwd  ■  ' 
^^^^'^TT  ^=r»:*55  sr-iiziii  rti.  r=jf  *rr,  mcine  aboniant  than  the  deniiev 
^c  r.^i  i^i  i_-r  \22.*L  Tii  TLZSZ'-::.  :c  :1^  is  Hmply  that  the  stratified 
^^:.i.^  .1  T^i_.:.\  fi-^^ls  zn  ::c- i  ire  frcrnec  nudcr  water. 

...i  :~ir.:.:'£Lrx  :c  iL-s  iir:  has  led  many  to  false  conclusioDS 
r;  jirrr*  r:  Ln:  tzz  .Sz — ^::  ::e  >=7T^:^^:•;':■n  that  marine  life  gittl^f 
i'^^^-*-  iz  *  rr:.:.-  r^.:»~iii  :.rrc-^:rl:ll:fe-  Tiiis  may  have  be« 
f'i  r.i>i,  i.jt  ::  .5  - :  •.  -  -_-  .  ^f  •;  -  .--^  rec^iivc  evidence  of  absence  or 

■^™      *  ^  -^^  — »       ^  ^      ■  ■■  -■  WM     i^Mi^.  ^  m  t  ^m 

^  -  ^-^^  :r..y  t.\;-: ::  ::  f.ni  driTzed  specimens  of  land  animibi 
^:  :^-:*>eT -:>e  ri-ii-f  xrere  TT^he-i  :r?:n  the  land  bv  floods ;  the 

^  i-=>5. -^>  :>:<  :::er*  is  ^---^-er  i^-.-onant  fictor  determining  lh« 
re^::ve  :i:.,:::i^  .^  .f  .-.^^:-  5-.,^.:^  ^z^  ^v^^  durabilit>-  or  present- 
.:.^:yoi  the  -=1:2:^:  st-cr-e.  There  miy  have  been  myriads  of 
s:\-::es  o:  so:":  ar.-.-ji'.s  of  which  we  can  never  obtain  a  single  spcd- 
men  un.ess  they  h:: :  >o:r.e  kir.d  of  protecting  shell  or  skeletoa 

*i!  ^^'^^'Ti''^^-?  ce>cr::>ed  in  the  preceding  note  have  a  homy  test, 
or  sca.e  ar-oi:r  ;  :hi<  -:.-ne  rcii^ains  in  the  fossils,  and  to  this  their 
r  e>mai:on  i>  c.:e.  They  are  carnivorous,  and  their  existence 
n^h'ioK  ,''''''^'  creatures  v.r  on  which  thev  fed,  land  animals  rf 
^^un  we  know  nothing  beyond  the  rare  remains  of  a  few  insects  and 

or  burro   '''^™'''  """^  ^^'^^  '''''™^  themselves,  but  their  tracks,  cases, 


Science  Notes.  409 


Perfumes  and  Disinfectiox. 

IN  the  Amtrican  Naturalist  is  an  account  of  experiraents  made  by 
Dr.  J.  M.  Anders  on  the  relations  of  plant  growth  to  the  gene- 
ration of  ozone. 

According  to  these  researches,  the  ozone  production  resides 
exclusively  ia  the  flower,  ordinary  leaves  doing  nothing  towards  it 
Dr.  Anders  finds  that  odorous  flowers  generate  the  most  ozone,  very 
little  being  produced  by  flowers  that  have  no  odour.  He  also  found 
that  sunlight,  or  at  least  difi"u3ed  daylight,  is  essential  to  its  pro- 
duction. 

These  conclusions  are  quite  in  accordance  with  the  results  of 
some  researches  made  in  1870  by  Professor  Mantegazzi.  He  found 
thU  nearly  all  the  essences  used  in  perfumery,  and  many  others  not 
appropriated  by  the  perfumer,  when  exposed  to  air  and  light,  develof>e 
ozone.  He  says  that  "  the  oxidation  of  these  essences  is  one  of  the 
most  convenient  means  of  producing  ozone,  since,  even  when  in  very 
minute  quantity,  they  can  ozonise  a  large  quantity  of  oxygen,  while 
their  action  is  very  persistent ;  that  in  the  greater  number  of  cases 
the  essences,  in  order  to  develope  ozone,  require  the  direct  rays  of 
the  sun  ;  in  a  small  number  of  cases  they  eflect  the  change  with 
diflfused  light :  in  few  or  none  in  darkness." 

Even  a  vessel  that  has  been  perfumed  with  an  essence  and  after- 
wards washed  and  dried,  still  developcs  ozone,  provided  a  slight 
odour  remains. 

The  most  effective  essences  are  those  of  cherry,  laurel,  palma 
rosa,  cloves,  lavender,  mint,  juniper,  lemons,  fennel,  and  bergamot; 
the  less  effective  are  anise,  nutmeg,  cajeput,  and  thyme.  Mantegazzi 
adds  that  "  camphor,  as  an  ozonogenic  agent,  is  inferior  to  any  of  the 
above-named  essences." 

These  facts  should  be  better  known  than  they  are.  Our  grand- 
mothers used  perfumes  as  disinfectants,  and  ozone  being  the  most 
effective  of  oxidising  cisinfectants,  it  appears  that  they  were  right.  In 
the  East,  where  there  is  much  need  for  atmospheric  purification,  the  old 
faith  in  perfumes  still  remains.  Witli  us  it  is  now  generally  supposed 
that  such  perfumes  merely  hide  the  malodour  and  deceive  us,  but  if 
Mantegazzi  and  Dr.  Anders  are  right,  this  modern  notion  is  a  fallacy. 

Mantegazzi's  researches  are  little  known  ;  Dr.  Anders  does  not 
appear  to  be  acquainted  with  them  ;  if  not,  the  confirmation  is  the 
more  satisfactor)'. 

It  is  satisfactory  to  learn  that  we  may  deodorise  without  the  aid 
of  such  disagreeable  agents  as  chlorine,  hypochlorous  acid,  caAqU^ 

VOL.  CCLVIIL      NO.  1 852.  irfilJ^H 


Ti*  G^ntUmatis 

Lm  fcc.    The  two  first  named  are  mischievous  by  bleaching  on 

s  ud  cornifiBg  netals,  even  gold  ;  the  third  is  a  dangeio*.  s  I 
^  a^  foy  £i^7ccal4e.    The  perfiimcs  combine  luxuiy  witli  | 


A  SaMTAKT  AXD   .■KSTHETIC  MlSSIOS. 

-*HE  fects  stated  in  the  above  note  suggest  a  practical  apjilica. 
tioQ  diftt  is  wotthr  of  the  attention  of  sanitary  reformers  and 


Mante^m  places  UveiMler  perfume   among  the  most  el1icii»it 

if  the  ozone  geneiatois.  The  la^iendeT  plant  is  very  hardy,  flourishes 

|lo  especially  m  oar  cUmate,  that  English  oil   of  lavender  is  &r 

r  to  any  other,  and  fetch^  z  correspondingly  high  price  m 

Ac  market. 

It  will  grow  freely  in  flowerpots  in  our  suburban  gardens,  ud 
n-enin  the  bact  }-ards  of  London  slums.  Therefore  I  saylttw 
have  a  lavender  plant  distribution  association,  by  the  aid  ofwtlid 
every  poor  man's  house  or  lodging  shall  be  perfumed  by  the  growing 
plant,  the  leaves  of  which,  as  well  as  its  flowers,  give  out  the  oiono- 
genie  essence. 

Those  who  could  not  be  induced  to  apply  any  chemical  disin- 
fectant, and  have  not  the  means  of  rebuilding  or  redraining  ihe" 
wretched  homes,  might  be  induced  to  attend  to  a  living  thing  wiA* 
sucet  odour. 

The  coslermongeti  afford,  already  organised,  an  efficient 
machinery  for  the  distribution  of  such  plants.  Supply  them  to  lllSt 
benefactors  of  the  poor  at  a  price  that  will  leave  a  good  pofi' 
when  retailed  at  a  penny  per  pot,  and  tliey  will  do  the  rest,  provide 
the  town  missionaries,  district  visitors,  &;c.,  will  preiwre  the  detaw" 
by  explaining  the  advantage  of  growing  a  pot  or  two  of  lavender «  * 
window  ornament  and  domestic  purifier. 

Are  R.its  Caknibals? 

""VTATURE"  tells  us  that  during  the  Health  Exhibition  4* 
1  >  huilijing  and  grounds  of  South  Kensington  were  oveiW 
with  rats,  food  then  being  plentiful.  On  the  closing  of  the  eihibili«* 
a  famine  ensued,  and  the  members  of  the  erst  pampered  colony  *«* 
seen  scampering  here  and  there  "with  abnormal  temerity,  o'''* 
fighting  fiercely  over  fragments  of  refuse."  They  were  so  numeW* 
that  the  noise  of  their  movements  is  described  as  lesembling  "^ 
"  sound  of  the  wind." 


Sciefue  Notes.  411 

By  degrees  they  disappeared,  and  this  disappearance  is  attributed 

some  dying  of  starvation,  and  others  migrating  to  the  neighbour- 

g  houses.     At  the  present  time  there  is  scarcely  one  in  the  building. 

I  have  had  some  unpleasant  experiences  with  rats  rather  recently, 
3  much  so  that  it  became  war  a  ouirance  between  us.  Either  the 
Its  must  have  left  the  house  or  I  must  have  done  so.  They  were 
rapped  by  scores.  Dogs,  cats,  and  ferrets  failed  to  sensibly  diminish 
heir  numbers.  Poison  had  some  effect,  but  was  not  largely  used, 
IS  the  results  of  dead  bodies  under  flooring  were  seriously  dreaded, 
:hough  none  were  actually  experienced. 

At  last  I  tried  the  persevering  application  of  broken  glass,  by 
thrusting  fragments  down  every  old  hole,  and  every  fresh  one  as  soon 
OS  it  appeared.  Tliis  was  successful,  and  some  curious  results  accom- 
panied the  clearance.  At  first  there  were  streaks  of  blood  on  the 
kitchen  floor  in  considerable  quantity,  and  distributed  all  over  it  These 
appeared  on  several  mornings.  At  about  the  same  time,  and  subse- 
quently, much  scampering  and  screaming  was  heard  beneath.  This 
was  followed  by  a  rapid  reduction  of  the  numbers  of  the  enemy. 

My  theor}'  is  that  when  any  one  rat  was  wounded  by  the  glass, 
the  scent  of  blood  excited  the  voracity  of  others,  and  a  cannibal 
struggle  occurred  ;  that  this  continued  till  extirpation  followed,  the 
more  fighting  the  more  bloodshed,  and  the  more  cannibalism. 

AVe  now  have  an  occasional  visitor  or  two  that  I  suppose  to  be 
the  survivor  or  survivors  of  the  devoured  colony. 

It  is  well  known  that  when  one  among  a  flock  of  ravenous 
wolves  is  wounded,  the  others  speedily  devour  it,  though  they  do  not 
thus  attack  their  sound  brethren. 

AVhat  became  of  the  aboriginal  black  rats  which,  we  are  told, 
have  been  extiq)ated  by  their  brown  successors  ?  If  they  were  not 
eaten,  where  are  their  bones?  What  becomes  of  the  bones  of  the 
millions  of  common  rats  that  die  annually? 

I  have  just  found  an  answer  to  this  question  in  Ilardwick^s 
Science  Gossip  of  February  last.  ^fr.  F.  W.  Halfpenny  there  tells  us 
that  the  black  rat  is  still  to  be  met  with  at  most  of  the  London 
Docks ;  that  the  Nonvny  or  sewer  rat  not  only  kills  its  victim  but 
also  devours  it.  He  describes  skins  of  freshly  killed  black  rats  turned 
inside  out,'and  found  in  various  drawers,  boxes,  &c. ;  that  this  treatment 
of  their  victims  is  usual  with  rats.  As  an  experiment  Mr.  Halfpenny 
gave  the  carcass  of  a  white  rat  to  one  of  the  black  and  white  variety; 
it  was  eaten,  only  a  few  bones  of  the  head  remaining  attached  to  the 
everted  skin. 


^y 


cK:U^:ans  Magazine. 

or  THE  lUDICaC  IXDUSTRY. 

IX  iSc5  Mz.  ^■daoB  Tcbboui  fiMind  some  undisflolved  metaUi  . 
j^KBS  jdber  fiaoM^g  the  balk  of  plafinnm  oies  in  aqua  nyii 

~  fisund  to  outdo  platinum  itsdf  i  . 
of  pucBsa  specBtitics. 
rxer  SI3K  msoriise  v.iBttinKnt.  is  iridhim.     Up  to  the  time  ^ 
aac^<«nr  CK  c:^  aetzL  f%iiiniiin  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  beiiM| 
:3e  atac  rtsruzaanr  cc  il  tbe  oKtals;  it  is infiisiMe  in  any  iiimace fee 
CC4SS.  cr  jF^aixT  coaabostiblcs  ;  cam  only  be  melted  by  the 
^  cc  :AjiiaL^iBeLi  i:^  or  ckcakiti,    Iiidinm  is  still  more  obstinate 
FiiriniiTT^  4ke  ^ja^  ress&s  all  the  acids  applied  singly,  but,  file 
j!CuL  ^  jciucte  ^  A  a;.i»:re  of  nitric  and  hydrochloric  add,  a§m 
r^-Tii^.    Irciuoi  nesass  even  ths.     It  is  excessively  hard,  the  haidor  j 
of  jH  :m  3«ciV^  2S  rcKtkaUr  incorrodible^  and  thetefore  one  of  Ae 
a»KSif  »rtu's     F^orszs  s  heavier,  balk  for  bulk,  than  goM,  fli 


1::^  e-i^rssK  Vunriw^  vhich.  mith  its  incocrodibility,  renden  it  ^ 
jL'3fec:sc  in:«^£x=x>e.  bts  jivea  it  a  special  value  as  a  material  Ibrthe 
3kC«  of  T^tts^bcc.  i^s  zj^v  Sf  euilr  understood,  its  infustbility  serioodf 
ix-stf^rsts  r:<e  c^mcsljes  cf  :cs  manu£ictnre.  This  difliculty  was  oitf* 
cvfttc  :n<v'c«i:TA]CLlv,  br  r^^ara^  it  nearly  as  diamonds  are  treated  ii 
»a1  .7^:  :>^  z.>*  -£  criir^.  §oii  f«s  ;  but,  for  the  stylographicpeiH 
^  ^^-VL^c  y -sjv;;  .  £  :t^  =:»i:^  >>  requinsd  than  the  ordinary  grains  sopplfi 
ittc  :i^is  y.iiv-  >ac  r,-  c<  crlled  and  ocheiwise  definitely  shaped. 

Focz  vK  i^sr  >^i:rj  jl^  >[r.  Tocn  HoLicd  overcame  the  diffxnhj 
by  ,to&ii;)^  y?K*«».ccr.*  :o  'jr.c.unx  mh^le  white  hot  in  a  crucible.  He 
:':^„T<  v.^>£a-::oI  jl  f-$;i:c  v:rai7cur.d  :b.it  could  be  cast  into  aaf 
c«fv^'xrc  *h.r.  c.  JL  tvi  w;:.v:h  r^cjtired  the  hardness  of  the  original  mcttL 
r:x^*hcr-:>  >:.t:  ijr- v  :3i:r«JLsej  tlie  fusibLitv  of  iron. 

tU. :  c.  is  *  :cc  ^:L  Mr  W.  L.  l^idlev.  of  Cincinnati,  has  aoce 
icu:ivi  ihd:  b^»  hcj::::^  :>^  :  hosyhcms  compound  in  a  bed  of  ^ 
th<  j.\Ksv  ho.- j«>  u:av  be  :^t::o^^^i.  and  thus  a  cascing  may  be  restored 
to  ihc  V  r-i^ical  Lufu>;;:iL:y  o;  :hsi  uns^inig^ible  metal  when  the  wo* 

Ihcse  aJtl^cliII>>lo.^,:L^v^i  rrojxrue^  hive  opened  out  many  ne* 
usc$  for  uiduoL  The  hcles  of  the  dni*t^Lites  used  for  fine  goM 
a::d  silver  wire  jire  now  n:uid>:  in  iridium  ir.<cejLd  of  rubies.  It  sinaiUrlf 
rcpUce:j  the  raby  and  jt^ate  kriiV-ed^^s  for  delicate  balances  and 
v>ther  friction  bearings;  it  is  i:>ed  for  tipping  hollow  h>-podcnmc 
neeviles,  &c.>  and  for  the  contact  points  of  t^slegraphic  instruments, i» 
which  use  it  outlives  many  platinum  points  ;  it  does  not  oxidise  0^ 
*^<^k,  being  still  more  noble  and  <t:Il  less  fusible  than  platinum. 

W.    IIATTIEC  WILUAJIS. 


TABLE   TALK. 


rERIDAN   AND   THE    MEMOIRS   OF    MlSS   SlUNEV    BiDLLPlI, 

CORRESPONDENT,  who  writes  from  Edinburgh  and  signs 

W.  Douglas  Kellock,  states  ihnt  ihe  k-tter  in  the  AOienmim 

Hon.  Lewis  Wingfield,  concerning  Sheridan  and  ihe  "School 

mdal,"  on  which  I  founded  a  note  in  Table  Talk  for  February 

s  led  me  into  inaccuracy.       That    the  "  Memoirs  of  Miss 

Bidulph"  is  by  Sheridan's  mother,    Frances  Sheridan  («« 

terlaine),  was  pointed  out  immediately  after  the  apjiearance 

.  Wingfietd's  letter,  as  was  the  fact  that  Mr.  Wingfield  was 

first  to  discover  the  obligation.     In  these  matters  I  simply 

i  the  communication  in  Skiz  Athenaum.     It  is  therefore  jusl 

linble  that  these  ex  plan  alio  us  should   be  furnished.     Mr. 

also  urges  that  the  resemblance  between  the  return  of  Miss 

Ts uncle  in  "Sidney  Bidulph"  and  that  of  Sir  Oliver  Surface  in 

diool  for  Scandal "  is  not  very  close,  and  that  the  incident  might 

Eed  to  many  other  novels  and  play?.     This  is  possible.    Still,  it 

ir  assumption  that  Sheridan  was  familiar  with  the  novel  written 

mother,  and  the  question  of  his  indebtedness  is  notallccted  by 

amess  of  relationship.     I  am  obliged  to  my  correspondent  for 

the  subject  matter  of  which  I  had,  howevur,  previously 

[is  substitution  of  Sidney  Biddulph  for  Sidney  Biditlph  I 

Rather  curiously,  however,  in  "Memoirs  of  the  Life  and 

of  Mrs.  Frances  Sheridan,"  by  her  granddaughter.  Alicia 

m  London,   1824,  8vo,  which    I    have  before  me,    the    name 

itph  upon  the  title  page  and  throughout  llie  volume,  is  given 

wo  d's.       It  is  also  so  sptll  in   Lowndes'   '■  Bibliogrnpiier's 


Whimsical  Stories  preservf.d  bv  Hill  Ecrton. 

Ae  Book-Hunter  of  Button  is  given  the  famous  anecdote  con- 
leraing  Robert  Owen,  the  parallelogram  communist,  and 
Iforce,  the  Bishop  of  Oxford.  In  an  edition  of  "  Men  of  the 
copy  of  which  is  still  in  the  possession  of  a  valued  friend  of 


I 


414  The  Gentletnan's  Magasi»e. 

miae,  a  known  collector,  and  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society,  t 
lines  dropped  out  from  what  is  technically  called  "the  fonn."  Inlhe 
process  of  restoration  one  or  two  lines  intended  for  Owen  got  into 
the  account  of  his  nearest  neighbour,  Oxford,  whose  biographical 
record  ran,  accordingly,  thus:  Oxford,  the  Right  Reverend  Samuel Wil- 
berforce.  Bishop  of,  was  born  in  1805.  A  more  kind-hearted andinily 
benevolent  man  doesnot  exist.  A  sceptic  as  regards  religious  revebtioa, 
he  is  nevertheless  "  an  out  and  out  believer  in  spirit  movements.' 
The  blunder  was,  of  course,  delected,  and  the  edition  was  wilhdnm 
A  few  copies  got  out,  however,  to  scandalize  the  onhodox  and  to 
amuse  the  ribald.  Here,  again,  is  [he  account  of  the  famous  prinlo'l 
blunder  that  destroyed  a  poetic  reputation,  when,  for  a  portion  of 
the  tine,  "  Lo  !  the  pale  martyr  in  his  sheet  of  fire,"  were  substiluirf 
the  words  "  shirt  on  fire."  In  this,  too,  is  an  account  how  plagbrisffli 
arc  detected  by  means  of  careless  printers  when  in  an  unacknowledpd 
"  crib,"  "  the  imitation,"  as  Peignot  says,  "  is  so  exact  that  the  va]' 
typographical  errors  are  carefully  preserved."  Here,  once  more,  iiW 
be  found  the  best  Irish  bull  on  record,  a  bull  which  five  readersoul 
of  six  will  pass  over  without  a  suspicion  that  it  is  not  perfeiSlj 
correcL  It  occurs  in  a  brief  passage  descriptive  of  the  happy  con- 
clusion of  a  duel.  "  The  one  party  received  a  slight  wound  in  ti" 
breast  ;  the  other  fired  in  the  air — and  so  the  matter  tenninalpi' 
Here,  lastly,  appears  the  "  artless  statement "  from  a  learned  book  on 
Irish  ecclesiastical  controversy,  written,  of  course,  by  an  Irishmffli 
that  a  certain  eminent  personage  had  "  abandoned  the  errors  of  tli' 
Church  of  Rome,  and  adopted  those  of  the  Churcli  of  England' 

Contemporary  Verdicts  dpon  Greatness. 

THE  question  whether  an  age  is  able  lo  take  the  intellecW" 
measure   of  its   greatest  men  has    never   been  dEfinitsV 
settled.     If  the  stature  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  was  visible  onlf  *" 
individuals,  and  not  to  the  majority  of  those  with  whom  theydK***' 
Chaucer  seems  in  Iiis   lifetime  to  have  obtained  full  recognition,  **  ' 
least  from  those  of  his  own  calling,  and  an  idea  of  the  immeasunW     ■ 
bigness  of  Dante  seems  to  have  been  formed  by  the  coramonpl*'^ 
intellect  of  his  day.     Petrarch  and  Tasso,  again,  it  is  known  i*^ 
crowned  with  laurels  in  the  capitol,  and  the  world  has  accepted 
approved  the  verdict.      Among  men  whose   reputation,   obtai'"- 
during  their  lifetime,  has  been  maintained,  are  Molifere,  Voltaire,*"*' 
Balzac,  in  France,  Goethe  in  Germany,  and  Swift  in  England  * 
speak  only  of  men  of  highest  mark.     The  brilliant  reputation!  <* 


jiers  are  maintained,  and  such  great  captains,  to  deal  only  with 

comparatively  modem,  as  Gustavus  Adolphus,    Henri    IV^ 

jBhal  Saxe,  Marlborough,  Wellington,  Napoleon,  are  not  likely  to 

displaced  from  the  columns  they  occupy.     Statesmen,  on  the 

ary,  seem  to  live  by  the  hate  or  contempt  they  have  inspired. 

indeed  are  the  men  who,  after  having  controlled  for  any  long 

iod  the  destinies  of  nations,  have  left  even  a  tolerable  reputa- 

Actors,   again,  keep   their  place,    and    Bettertoc,    Garrick,  . 

D,  Kemble,  Macready,  Siddons,  Talma,    Rachel,    and    a    score   j 

IS,  shine  with  undiminished  lustre.      These  few  reflections  are 

^ted  by  the  competition  recently  held  in  the  columns  of  a 

lIoD  evening  paper,  given  of  late  to  experiments  of  this  class,  as 

(ho  are  the  greatest  living  Englishmen,     I  will  put  on  one  side 

lOlitical  llie  question  who  is  the  greatest  statesman,  and  will  leave  out 

the  greatest  preacher,  novelist,  and  humbug.     The  result  of  some 

en  hundred  opinions,  then,  is  to  place  Mr.  Millais  as  the  greatest 

Her  by  814  votes  against  448  for  Sir  F.  Leighton.    This  might, 

ips,  have  been  expected.    Mr.  Sala,  the  only  ivell-known  jour- 

'm,  heads    ihe  list   of  newspaper  ivriters  with   8S8  votes  ;    the 

iera  reputation   of    I>ord   Wolseley   is    shown    in    his    having 

!o  for  the  position  of  greatest  soldier.     Mr.    Huxley  heads  the 

1  of  science  with    865    votes.     Mr.   Irving,  in  the  competition 

actors,  is  foremost  of  all,  having    1,337    votes.      There  is   no 

le  for  surprise   in   this.     I  am,    however,   astonished  to  find 

;  Mr.   Ruskin   leads  with    568   votes  the  _list  of  writers,    while 

Wrd  Tennyson  conies  in  next  with   263  votes.     Is  this  the  real 

pinion  amongst  Englishmen  ?    I  fancy  not.    There  is  a  tendency 

°  a  reaction  in  the  case  of  Lord  Tennyson's  reputation.     I  fancy, 

g*evcr,  a  broader  experiment  wouKl  show  even  yet  that  he  stands 

ia  English  estimation. 

THt  Stage  as  a  Profession  in  England. 

KOW  far  the  stage  is  a  desirable  profession  for  young  women 
threatens  to  become  one  of  the  burning  questions  of  the 
.  One  disputant  after  another  enters  the  arena,  and  Mr,  Burnand, 
Hollingshead,  Mr.  Toole,  and  Mr.  Dickens  discuss  the  important 
Bion  whether  an  actress  is  likely  to  remain  a  virtuous  woman, 
le  is  in  reality  nothing  to  discuss.  As  I  have  more  than  onca 
icated,  the  best  protection  for  a  young  woman  of  any  social 
ition  is  necessarily  happy  domestic  surroundings.  When  for  the 
iNe  and  careful  protection  of  home  is  substituted  an  independent 

l1 


I 


S'»T.^.^aziH€. 


^A 


¥:in-^--  ?:. 


"-*--       <L! 


•    ■     ■  >j 


1I7  ::  be  Liced.  Whether  a  voman 
L  crccer:.  acts  on  the  stage,  or  sells 
^  tTT-rse-i  to  temptations  which  her 
i^Drres.  I:  is,  however,  imperative  that 
*r  r-s-z  lii-inj.  and  a  woman  who  will 
.i  -w-ll  prz rably  do  so  on  the  stagt 
tct  5175,  -i  robust  anl  not  a  valctu- 
1 :  : :  rfelis  her  character  after  going  on 

'• resist  temptation — is  no  very 

?-  e.-ei  iho-igh  circumstances  should 
i-i   :'-.:i.:r«-   :n   London  that  arc  as 
:jT~:r:.:i'   es:aj!ishmcnls.      Without 
.  «f  •  7rr:'r-> -r..  1  hold  that  a  woman 
-  rt^    L-    ::::  -  yoor  specimen  of  an 


:\ 


.  -T  ^7--~r  :n  rt:iLANr». 


^   • 


.,c. 


\.' /     "        '  •    -::-:-:    -/-fi.:.-'!'   :r::ct,    printed  in  174^ 

T   ;    Jj.5c     f  :ir  r.-esent  Theatrical  Dispute 
">  .      \*..-     ?   r:-.:jLl--ji  ::  S/.ccinct  Account  of  th 

"  ^-      "    ,"-^-.  ....--:-..:*  :"-;  Ar.cier.:  Sta;ze,"  etc.,  etc.,  th 

■ "      ■   >  -       :  . .  ■ ■.-■-..:':'.:;?  .ire  shown  to  have  settlec::^ 

'-*>'■     >  .  V    :  .-  -.-:";    "ii:?:.?r.  of  tho  morals  of  actressc      * 

■  '     ^  '-'    ^-.-      >     .      .-  «:_:.«ii     "  In  roint  of  decorum,"  say       ^ 
*:    '-.::      :-:.::-:    =v:el5  j.'.'.  others:  iheir  actors  an 
.,      *  --     .■..-.:. :r.  c.~i  cannot  appear  upon  th 
■-  ■  -     -  .->,  ^  :•:«••••.:  ^:  t>.en  thev  all  havesom 
"?     -^      ^    "    "-        •',  v.'-^  ;?  t':;:ir  prlncip.il  tragedian,  L 
'    "  ?  .".~   e\:e'.'.ent  Cviniedian,  is  a 

.    -  :  ■.:.-. -^.-  ..::  :'.c  v!. .5  .r  ^.hiu liters  of  burghei^* 
*    ■   ..    s.     •..".    ^e:   ::".^::  '.ivinj  by  a  playhouse,  s<^ 
" .  ■   : "   , . :   ;. :  ■  :  • . "  ^  : '. : .  ro   \ '. \ :  j  h  can  blemish  t heir  ch»  " 
'■'.'.':  .  :\        '•':::■.::  :-.e  5.1  :"j  course  is  still  adopted 
i".  :l  '  .-.r..;  1  .<• ;  v  -  •      1  n-i  :::  :ea>:  I  -ir  personal  witness  to  tbtf 
cn-.i". e ". . :'. y  re?;  c : :a . '. .  w ;.•  ■  i -.i  w >.  i  :h  :>. e  pri no "  pal  i h eatres  of  Holland 
are  c:  .:u.':o;..  ar.i  c.-.r.   s:.a:e  :>a:  r.o  sacritice  of  art  attends  the 
o::fe:v.i.rxe  .  f  .;::   -.yw,  <>::c  :>.e   .ictors   are   among   the  best  i" 
E.i'  . -•     Nl'.-.:.::  1:..^  :o  r.or  liermany  can  show  finer  acting  thao 
^•a>  exr.ibiteil    1  y    the    RoiterJiin    dramatic   company  during  its 
solitary  and,  f.r.a:v::a".'.y  s:  eakinj,  disastrous  visit  to  LondorL 

SYLVANir?  VRFAS. 


zxr. 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE. 


May  1S85. 
THE    UNFORESEEN. 

By  Alice  O'Hanlou. 

CBJPTjrR   XVIII. 
IN     HYDE     PARK. 


I 


I  yT  ASTER  EUSTACE  AWDRY  was  born  early  in  the  pleasant 
Vi  month  of  May,  and  towards  the  close  of  the  July  following 
^  piid  his  first  visit  to  the  Metropolis,  attended  by  his  devoted 
iRnts,  two  nurses,  and  a  suitable  array  of  domestic  servants. 
In  addition  to  the  ancestral  domain  of  Clavemiere,  a  small  estate 
Devonshire,  and  a  shooting-box  in  Scotland,  the  Grand  Turk's 
M(by  that  name  Miss  Ashmead  had  christened  this  infant  prodigy) 
BBsessed  a  house  in  Park  Lane,  and  thither  with  all  due  honour  he 
conducted.  On  the  same  afternoon  of  his  arrival,  his  Imperial 
Ei^hness  was  presented  with  a  new  courtier,  whom,  being  in  an 
Bnsuatly  fractious  mood,  we  are  bound  to  confess,  he  received  very 
liably.  The  courtier  in  question  was  liis  maternal  grandfather. 
Eslcourt  had  now  been  Siving  in  London  upwards  of  three 
*Hths.  He  had  given  up  his  house  and  his  business  in  Quebec, 
i  had  taken  furnished  apartments  in  the  West  End,  with  the  inten- 
1 — so  his  daughter  had  been  given  to  understand — of  devoting  his 
ibtioQ  to  the  ship-building  concern  (principally  of  small  yachts 
I  barges),  hitherto  managed  by  his  partner,  Mr.  Filder,  on  the 
tmes  banh. 

But,  although  he  had  been  in  England  so  long,  and  within  a  few 
ire'  journey  by  rail  from  Clavermere,  Mr.  Estcourt  had  actually 
Id  only  one  short,  half-day's  visit  to  Claudia  since  his  arrival 
Thai  visit  had  taken  place  just  before  the  birth  of  her  boy,  and 
ttil  now  Mr.  Estcourt  had  absohitely  never  seen  King  Baby  I 
Claudia  had  felt  botli  excessively  hurt  and  excessively  indignant 
VOL.  ccLviii.    NO.  1853. 


i 


^iS  The  Gcnlkman's  Magasine. 

at  lliis  neglect  on  her  father's  pan.  Moreover,  she  had  been  utteilj 
iinable  to  understand  it — seeing  that  up  to  the  date  of  her  maiiu^ 
Mr.  Eslcourt  had  proved  the  most  devoted  of  parents. 

It  is  true  thai  he  had  continually  promised  to  "  run  tlown,"  and 
that  he  had  sent  her  many  affectionate  messages  through  hethusbmd, 
whom  he  had  seen  each  time  Douglas  liad  been  in  London  (and  tlal 
had  been  pretty  often  of  late) ;  and  it  is  also  true  that  the  latter  had 
sought  to  excuse  her  father  to  Claudia  on  the  plea  that  he  had  been 
kept  extremely  busy  with  the  rearrangement  of  business  matters,  the 
furnishing  of  his  new  apartments,  and  so  forth.  But  to  Claudia  ihtse 
excuses  had  seemed  utterly  inadequate,  and  she  made  up  heimind 
to  punish  Mr.  Estcourt  by  forbidding  him  a  sight  of  the  Grand  Tiat 
for  at  least  two  days  after  his  installation  in  the  Park  Lane  nurseij. 

Maternal  vanity,  however,  combined  with  the  facts  that  herlathti 
appeared  to  be  very  penitent,  and  that  he  looked  far  from  well,  had 
broken  down  this  resolution ;  and  after  an  hour's  purgatoi)'  (which 
Mr,  Estcourt  bore  with  exemplary  patience)  he  had  been  presented 
to  his  grandson  on  this  very  first  visit, 

"  Papa,  are  you  sure  you  are  feeling  quite  well  ?  "  demanded  lus 
daughter,  putting  this  question  for  the  third  or  fourth  time,  on  llW' 
descent  from  the  nursery.  *'  ^'ou  look  so  pale  and  thin— »loC 
as  though  you  might  have  had  a  long  illness,  //(T7'<r  you  b«n  illj 
papa  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear,  I  assure  you.  A  little  worried,  perhlp^ 
and  anxious — no,  not  anxious  exactly,  but  rather  overworked,  jW 
know,  with  my  removal  here,  and  . . .  and  other  litde  matters.  ThB'* 
all — that  is  really  all,  Claudia,"  Mr.  Eslcourt  spoke  in  a  jerky,  h** 
tnting  fashion  quite  new  to  him,  and  he  looked  about  the  room 
nervously — avoiding  his  daughter's  gaze.  "  My  health,  I  belieWii* 
quite  as  usual." 

Claudia  did  not  believe  so;  and  although  she  forbore  to  prcBtte 
subject  any  further  just  then,  she  continued  throughout  the  eveninji 
which  Mr.  Estcourt  spent  with  Douglas  and  herself,  to  regard  him 
from  time  to  time  with  considerable  solicitude  and  a  growing  con''*' 
tion  that  something  was  amiss  with  him — that  he  was  either  iU  i" 
body  or  suffering  in  mind— though  she  knew  of  no  trouble  ihalcooU 
have  befallen  htm.  It  occurred  to  her  once  to  wonder  whether  i' 
was  possible  that  her  father  might  have  discovereil  something  i* 
reference  to  her  own  past  secrets,  and  the  notion  set  Claudia's  heJ" 
palpitating  with  sickening  violence.  But  her  fears  on  that  scoteW 
very  soon  set  at  rest,  as  well  by  Mr.  Estcourt's  demeanour  10«"J' 
her,  as  by  certain  observations  on   his  pan  which   disproved  i^e 


The  Unforeseen.  419 

disquieting  hypothesis.  No,  whatever  had  occasioned  the  change  in 
him — and  a  change  there  certamly  was — Claudia  saw,  with  satisfac- 
tion, that  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  her. 

A  tall,  gentlemanly  looking  man,  with  an  erect,  spare  figure,  Mr. 
Estcourt  had  always  appeared  very  much  younger  than  his  years. 
Even  now,  despite  the  fact  that  he  looked  decidedly  out  of  health,  no 
one  would  have  guessed  him  to  be  more,  than  fifty.  Yet  he  had 
passed  his  sixtieth  birthday.  With  straight,  refined  features,  grey 
eyes,  a  clear-shaven  face  and  brown  hair,  which  showed  but  a  very 
slight  intermixture  of  grey,  he  was  still  a  handsome  man ;  in  his 
youth  he  had  been  considered  a  remarkably  handsome  one.  Claudia 
had  always  felt  proud  of  her  father,  as  well  as,  in  her  way,  fond  of 
him.  Of  Mr.  Estcourt's  attachment  to  his  daughter  there  could  be 
no  question.  In  Quebec,  at  any  rate,  he  had  been  regarded  as  the 
model  of  an  indulgent  and  considerate  parent. 

"  Of  course,  papa,  you  will  stay  with  us  entirely  whilst  we  are 
in  town?"  observed  Mrs.  Douglas,  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 
"That  is  the  correct  expression,  you  know,"  she  added,  smiling. 
"  Among  fashionable  people,  London  is  *  town,'  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  country." 

"  I  will  be  with  you  as  much  as  possible,  my  love,"  answered  her 
father.     "  But  I  ...  I  can  scarcely  be  here  altogether." 

•*  Why  not,  sir  ?  I  sincerely  hope  you  will  ?  "  put  in  his  son-in- 
law.  "  I  shall  be  much  engaged  myself,  especially  in  the  evenings, 
since  I  have  come  up  expressly  to  attend  more  regularly  to  my 
parliamentary  duties"  (Douglas  had  tlirown  himself  into  these 
duties  with  that  energetic  conscientiousness  which  marked  all  his 
uftdertakings).  "  But  I  hope,  indeed,  that  you  will  make  this  house 
your  home.  Claudia  will  be  greatly  distressed,  I  am  sure,  if  you  do 
not" 

"  I  shall  be  something  more  than  distressed,"  protested  that  young 
lady.  "I  shall  be  offended,  very  much  offended.  Remember, 
papa,  I  have  only  half-forgiven  you,  yet,  for  your  unkindness  in  not 
coming  down  to  Clavermere  to  see  baby.  I  shan't  forgive  you  at  all 
unless  you  try  to  make  some  atonement  now." 

'*  My  dear  child,  I  would  stay  with  you  with  the  greatest  pleasure, 
you  may  be  sure.  It  is  only  business  considerations  which  make  me 
hesitate.  My  apartments  are  more  convenient,  rather  more  convenient, 
for  the  line  of  omnibuses." 

"Omnibuses?"  echoed  Claudia.  "Surely,  papa,  you  don't  ride 
in  omnibuses  ?  " 

"Well,  yes,  sometimes — sometimes  I  do,"  he  rejoined^mtlv  tVal 

c.  cw  ^ 


420  The  GentUntapis  Magazini. 

strange  unaccustomed  hesitancy  of  utterance  which  his  daughter  liad 
already  observed.  "I  ...  I  have  not  yet  found  time  to  look  out  for 
a  carriage,  and,  as  I  wrote  you,  I  sold  those  we  had  in  Quebec  But 
the  omnibus  runs  a  good  part  of  the  way  towards  the  yard,  and  far 
the  rest  of  the  distance,  I  .  .  .  I " 

**  Papa,  dear,  why  do  you  continue  to  trouble  yourself  widi 
business  ?  **  intemipted  Claudia.  "  I  can't  understand  it.  Douglas 
does  not  want  you  to  leave  me  a  monstrous  fortune— do  yw, 
Douglas?  And  surely,  papa,  you  have  far,  far  more  money  than 
you  require  for  your  own  use.  Why  don't  you  give  it  up  ?  D3uglas, 
do  persuade  papa  to  give  up  work." 

To  ihis  appeal  neither  of  the  men  responded  immediately;  and 
Claudia  might  have  noticed,  had  she  possessed  any  keenness  of 
observation,  which  was  not  the  case,  that  they  carefully  avoided 
glancing  in  each  other's  direction. 

"Well,  well,  my  dear.  Til  think  of  it,"  returned  Mr.  Estcouit 
"  I  .  .  .  yes,  ver}'  probably,  I  shall  give  it  up." 

"  That's  right !  and,  in  the  meantime,  you  will  send  for  your 
portmanteau  at  once,  and  sleep  here?    Shall  I  ring  the  bell?" 

**  I  beg  you  will  take  up  your  quarters  with  us,  Mr.  Estcourt?" 
again  pressed  Douglas. 

**  Thank  you,  as  you  both  insist  so  kindly  upon  it,  I  ...  I  will 
accept  the  invitation  ;  but  don't  ring,  Claudia !  It  would  not  be 
convenient  to  send  for  my  portmanteau  this  evening.  I  will  come  to 
you  to-morrow." 

With  this  concession  his  daughter  was  forced  to  be  content 

"  Now  I  sliall  nurse  you,  papa,  and  cheer  you  up ! "  she 
exclaimed.  **  Vou  want  looking  after,  and  you  want  cheerful 
society.  Oh  I  by-tlie  bye,  Olivia  Ashmead  is  coming  up  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  to  stay  with  us  for  a  fortnight.  I'm  so  glad,  she 
will  help  me  to  find  out  what  is  the  matter,  and  to  set  you  to  rights 
again." 

•*  My  dear,  I  have  told  you  already  .  .  .  But  who  is  Olivia 
Ashmead  ?     I  don't  ver}-  much  cxu-e  for  .  .  .  for  company  just  now." 

*•  Olivia  will  not  be  company,  papa,  and  you  will  care  for  her. 
But  how  can  you  have  forgotten  her  name  ?  I  have  written  to  you 
about  her  often  enough.     She  is  my  particular  friend." 

•*  Yes,  yes,  I  recollect — I  quite  recollect  now,"  returned  her  father. 
But  either  this  suggestion  that  he  was  to  have  a  fellow-visitor,  or  some- 
thing else,  appeared  to  have  added  to  his  nervous  disquietude,  and 
after  a  little  further  desultory  conversation  Mr.  Estcouit  rose  to 
take  his  leave  for  the  evening.     He  kept  his  promise,  however,  of 


Tie  Uii/omcai,  421 

rftuming  on  the  following  day,  and  by  ihe  close  of  it  Claudia  felt 
more  ihan  ever  impressed  with  the  change  in  her  father's  aspect 
*nd  manner— a  change  quite  inscrutable  to  her,  and  as  to  the 
■ciuse  of  which  her  husband  appeared  unable  to  suggest  any 
explanation. 

The  next  day  Mtss  Ashmead  arrived  on  the  short  visit  which,  in 
IBCcordance  with  Claudia's  urgent  entreaties,  she  had  agreed  to  pay 
to  her  friends  in  their  London  house.  Douglas  being  absent  that 
evening  at  the  House,  Mr.  Estcourt  passed  it  in  the  company  of  the 
two  ladies  alone,  and  to  Claudia's  gratitication  he  appeared  to  be  in 
■uch  better  spirits,  more  like  himself,  than  at  any  previous  time 
their  reunion. 
"  You  have  done  my  father  a  world  of  good,  Olivia  ! "  protested 
r  liostcss,  as  they  separated  for  the  nighL  And  it  really  did  seem 
though  Miss  Ashmead's  society — which  the  good-looking  elderly 
*idower  sought  very  assiduously  during  the  next  day  or  two — was 
IWoving  of  benefit  to  him,  for,  although  his  nervous  restlessness  of 
*>aniier  continued,  he  grew  quite  lively  and  chatty  when  in  Olivia's 
^fesence. 

"What  a  particularly  charming  girl  your  friend  is,  Claudia  1"  he 
•Served,  finding  his  daughter  alone,  on  returning  from  business  one 
■«moon  within  a  week  of  Miss  Ashmead's  advent.  "A  most 
arming  girl !  " 

"Hardly  a  girl,  papa,  Olivia  is  twenty- eight,"  said  Claudia, 
^'-Jghing.     "  But  certainly  she  is  very  nice." 

"  My  dear,  she  is  more  than  nice.  You  are  highly  favoured  in 
^'i-^'ing  such  a  friend." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that !  .  .  .  "  Mrs.  Douglas  Awdry  finished  the 
*^»itence  by  a  shrug  of  her  pretty  shoulders. 

Her  father,  however,  did  not  notice  the  gesture,  for  he  was  not 
*^<3king  at  her.  He  was  turning  over,  in  an  aimless  fashion,  the 
l^^ges  of  a  book  which  lay  before  him  on  the  table. 

"  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  she  possessed  some — some  little 
^^Ttune?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  don't  remember  telling  you,  papa — but  Olivia  has  six  hundred 
»  jor." 

'       "Dear  me  I    \\'hal  a  very  comfortable  provision  !  " 
_       "  I  should  not  have  supposed  you  would  have  thought  much  of  six 
■hundred  a  year,  papa,"  laughed  his  daughter, 

"/?  No,  no,  perhaps  not  Comparatively  speaking,  of  course, 
•l  is  a — a  very  poor  income.  Still,  it  represents  comfort  and  independ- 
ence ;  it  ,  .  .  it  would  be  a  refuge." 


I 


'22  The  Gcntlt^Kans  M^z^^-^^i^- 

"A  re:'j-:o.  72' a?"  re;^  cited  his  daughter,  wonderlngly.    " 
a  c u::  -?  cx:  rcssion  I     How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Mr.  fStc  -.irt  ajpe.ircv!  fluttered.  '*  Diri  I  use  that  tenn? 
.i>V:c  J. :  :rr.:r.^  tr.-j  :  a.:;':  s  ^A  his  lv)ok  with  tremulous  haste.  "  1 1 
rr.c- :■-•/.■    :'■...:--:!":   i:  w.i>   a  -cciire    iro vision  for  vour  dear  1 

■•  V-  -  t.-.kc  a  va-t  dc:il  nf  interest  in  mv  "dear  vouni;  fri( 
r.v":v.:  :kcd  C".i::::a.  "  I  >r.al!  I  c^rin  to  feel  quite  jealous,  papa  I " 
5:v.:'.c'J.  h;A.vjr.  a>  -V.-j  >*  cikc.  and  it  was  evident  that  there  ^ 
«!  .:Me  ::v.:.-.:r:^  in  her  w,  rJ>,  nor  suspicion  in  her  mind.  "^ 
yr-i  !:<„•  ::•  drive  w::h  u-;  '.his  afternoon?**  she  went  on.  "01 
crcf-ir.^  r.   .v.  ar.d  I  mu>t  n;n  off  and  do  the  same.** 

"T-.a-'x  \  J.  r.o.  I  have  some  letters  to  write,  or  I  should 
b-. lt.    ii'/. lilted.      Is  i:   this  evening'  your  dinner-party   is  I 

J        *  • «    -     ■    ^ 

'■  W;.v.  •  ;.:.■•.  dvar.  where  i^  vour  memon-?  No,  that  will 
::r:.!  Si:  :.*:.y  ;  ;  .::  Poi:cla<  has  invited  two  or  three  gentlem 
:  -:.•  r:  v^.  '1*;.:- cv-r.:r- he  expects  there  will  be  a  late  del 
c:r.:  \  m  rv.  ■:".'.  ;:c:  his  speak  in::  of  it  at  breakfast?  So  you,  ; 
r.r.d  c:.T  '  dv.i:  \  o::r  j  friend  '  will  be  all  alone.  Humph  !  that  a 
to  «ra:i:v  v  •.•.  ?     RcaIIv.  I  n:'.:<t  tell  01ivi.i  how  she  has  fascinate 


1  ■•;  ■• 


Mrs.  Po".:^!.i<  Awdry  r.:n  oft*  laughing  lightly:  but  som< 
ir.cide":  :::.::  •  vi  v.rre!  dz-ri:":^  a  hrief  visit  to  the  nurser\-,  wh 
was  .",•.:. :d  fcr  her  I'.rive.  dr.ve  the  conversation  from  her  min 
i::s:c.'d  .  f  5."*er:.:::-.ir:^  \\^t  friend  with  an  account  of  her  f 
.1  : : " ::.::!  :".  f .  :  ! '.  c r.  : >.  e  y o;; r. g  m o t he r  e n  1  i ven ed  t he  sh ort  d ista 
:V.L^  :  .:rk  j..::cs  Vy  dw-J.lir.  j  uj -on  various  proofs  of  her  baby's  pre 
And  :.^  .'.!'.  C!.i".\".ia's  r.-;rtures  about  her  little  son  (thougt 
r.i:^f.:res  .'.re  ::>.:.-.'.ly  cor.si^itred  the  climax  ofborcdom) Olivia  Asl 
1  s:er.ed  ir.v.:ria:!y  u::h  I'.e  most  lender  j>alience.  The  trut 
t:..i;  this  .:-».•.■: -hi  .;r:e-:,  roMe- minded  woman  looked  with  c 
hopefv.'.r.ess  t.>  C"..v.v".i.ts  maternity  as  a  means  of  improvin 
eh.i:.\eter.  Sl.e  :r;:>:ed  that  this  apj-arently  genuine  affection  fi 
child  wv^;:M  co  some  wr.y  low.irds  eradicating  her  self-love,  t 
WO'.: Id  c:^.'..:r.:e  her  heart  .ir.-l  si:i']'!v  that  want  in  her  nature  of 
lMi\i.\  h.id  .'/.I  .ilong  been  jo  juinfully  conscious.  Thcrefoi 
rcioieed  ovj.r  .:nd  cr.cor.r.igevl  every  manifestation  of  her  fi 
moth.erly  j  ride  and  .-.neciion.  :ir.d  lent  a  symi^ithetic  car  1 
smallest  of  nursery  det.nls. 

^.'^n  the  present  occasion  the  subject  lasted  until  about  ha 
Icrcth  of  the  inevitable  park  drive  had  been  attained     Then 


wmmm 


s  Claudia  was  beginning  to  own  to  herself  that  it  was  exhausted,  a 
company  of  scarlet-coated  outriders  trotted  past,  and  instantly 
Mk.  Douglas  Awdry's  coachman  reined  in  h'u  horses. 

"Why,  Olivia,  what  is  the  mailer?     Why  are  all  the  carriages 
lopping?"  inquired  the  young  Canadian  in  her  ignorance. 

"  Because  the  Queen  is  coming,"  returned  het  companion.  "  Look ! 
heisia  that  carriage  with  Prince  Albert." 

Claudia  bent  forward  to  gain  a  better  view  of  her  Majesty,  and  in 
0  doing  obstructed  Olivia's  vision,  who  was  on  the  farther  side  of 
he  carriage.  The  latter,  however,  to  whom  the  sight  of  royalty  was 
nothing  new,  turned  quite  contentedly  to  study  the  lookers-on  instead 
of  the  show.  And  by  one  of  these  her  attention  was  immediately 
riveted.  Within  a  yard  of  Mrs.  Douglas  Awdry's  handsome  equip- 
age, which  was  drawn  up  close  by  the  railings  that  separated  the 
fchionabJe  promenaders  in  carriages  from  the  scarcely  less  fashion- 
able promenaders  on  foot,  stood  a  little  slight  woman  very  elegantly 
•Iressed,  with  a  pale,  but,  Olivia  thought,  most  remarkable  face.  By 
'wside  two  small  boys  in  velvet  tunics,  and  holding  each  other  by 
'"ft  hand,  were  pressing  against  the  rails.  Catching  up  the  nearer  of 
™csc  little  fellows  (a  fair-haired  boy,  apparently  about  six),  the 
B  slight  woman  held  him  aloft,  and  Olivia  heard  her  exclaim  in 
'Oken  English,  but  in  a  clear,  pleasantly  modulated  voice — "  Look 
^U,  my  Claude  !     Dost  thou  see  her,  the  good  Queen  ?  " 

The  ringing  tones  carried  beyond  Olivia  Ashmead  and  struck 
'On  the  ear  of  Mrs.  Douglas  Awdry.  Turning  with  a  start,  the 
tter  uttered  a  low  cry  of  astonishment ;  and  as  Olivia  looked  round, 
tattled  in  her  turn  by  the  cry,  she  saw  that  Claudia  was  leaning  for- 
*  I  and  staring,  with  lips  apart,  at  the  little  woman  who  had 
attracted  her  own  attention.  Instinctively  Olivia's  gaze  reverted  to 
fhesame  direction,  and  just  in  time  for  her  to  catch  a  flash  of  recog- 
kdtioD  as  it  illumined  that  striking  countenance  and  instantly  altered 
B  expression,  banishing  a  smile  which  had  softened  the  cameo-like 
'lioeaments,  and  kindhng  the  dark  eyes  into  a  deeper  intensity. 

"  Mon  Dieu  ! "  Miss  Ashmead  heard  that  exclamation.  Then, 
ahe  saw  the  little  woman  clutch  eagerly  at  the  hands  of  the  two  chil- 
Bren  by  whom  she  was  accompanied,  turn  her  back  upon  the  carriage, 
d  hurry  off. 
" Good  gracious,  Claudia  !  Who  is  she?"  demanded  Obvia. 
"^^Tio  is  7c/io?"  inquired  Claudia.  But  this  affectation  of 
Ignorance  was  contradicted  by  the  faltering  voice  and  by  the  ghastly 
r,  which  a  sudden,  unreasoning  terror  had  called  up  to  the 
speaker's  face. 


:  _r  -•-  Ltis?     \^'ry  are  you  so  frightened?" 

•  I  :  'i..  TS.Z.     Who  could  that  woman  be? 

•  -     1   : :  -. :  V-  ::^-  ir.  the  lea«t  what  vou  aie 


^  r 


•    .   -  ~.  .  . 


;      *     _      _^_^ 5 


V  "         V 

"*■".■      : 


■-~;-i   r.iide   no   rejoinder,  and 

:::-.*i  :r.i:  the  carriage  had  again 

"".rJir-ir.z  of  i:  all?*'     01i\nakept 

r-:-:  rcr.iiion  and  that  mutual  di^ 

:::z":":or..  there  remained  in  her 

;h  :hce  the  impress  of  it  had  been 

:  —-5  Claudia's  long-drawn  "Oh I" 

■ : :  >well  the  sum  of  proof.  But 

?     \y7.y  r^d  the  one  hurried  off 

.1  :hc  other  attempt  to  deny  the 

:!-~z:w  Ir;;dd:al  secret  in  common? 


-« "a.-?  sharp  with  anxiety  and  with 
■>..."•.  w:.>  riji:!-  in  her  breast  ■ 
•■  "•:-.  -v  :h.::  >trang:e -looking;  little 
■  ■• .  -.  w;:v  >ho'jld  YOU  dcnvthe 
■-•. 5    *.;.■-"  vo-r  friend?     I  do  not 


■  ■"  -       "        ■.-"..":'.■.-;!    2TC  your  talking  of?" 

"■'.     ■     "  ■  -.    ■-  ■-    r::;. -J,  ".: /<h-    h::le    woman?     Are  you 

■  '-    ■■  "r        -         -  ■  — -'"^  .'.:">■"•  ;:::r J  to  that  description.    At 

.   -■        -"       ■-        ;   ■>•:  •.•.:.:  .>f.-::i:"   h.:d  left  her    lips    Claudia 
'       "   ■^■.    ■  ■ -"■     -■■■".   -*■  :::.-.:   :v.>...<^-  .     "  At  kast,"  she  added, in 

■  --."       >":         -'.^f   ;■•..   :v:  T?  th.-:  ;-er>on  with  the  two  little 

■  "'     '■  «-     ".■:■:".-'.-.:.>;   >!-.^-  was   so  jmIc.    an  J,  for  a 
■-■"«■■    '.  >.  ■^   -   ■  >  ^    ■  .:  ::  ::,.:.:.     IV.::.  as  for  knowing  her! 

^   *    -  ■  *  ."      ".    -■••---;.:   : .  I  '.•..■.•.  c  never  seen  herinmyliio 

^  -^  -^  ■  r  "^  "^ '  '"^  ■  ■".  ^  :  ■•■v.::.>  h-r  comranion  with  asmile, 
.^-  -■:  ^.:  :  .  :;.:^";.  :;  :  .<  h^s:  :  r-:v^::\::on.  ]\M  that  smile  Iroie 
-"  "  ■-■  . -^  v  ....;.  V  >  ■.:.■^.■:\^  he:  straight  in  the  lace,  with  an 
.■\  •■."-  /  •  ^'■;  'j:  ;■;:'.  z ;  ,:".u- ".'.". '0  s-.u-.  .is  Claudia  had  nevcrscen 
.  /  V  v  .T^.  A-:  ..■.;_:'.■:::  :-.:>h  !::;.:  ::;ountcd  to  her  bronJ  fore- 
■./  ■'C-v'.m:":  "v:.:  >.:  .;-:.;f  ::\:;  !h'.<  v>f  5tLrn  severity,  and  Olivi-^'^ 
/  V-;  ^:.\  v". c<  ^^v::  :  ..rc."^  h.r  :::r^":j:h  and  tl^rough. 

V.^:  .;  :;  A  >;:.v".;>  Ch^ivh.;  c.worcd  be::eath  that  iilance.     W^ 


The  UnforeseM,  425 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  she  exclaimed.  "One 
would  think  you  suspected  me  of  some  dreadful  crime  ! " 

"I  suspect  you  oi falsehood,  Claudia,"  was  the  uncompromising 
fejoinder. 

Mrs.  Douglas  Awdry  pulled  the  check- string.  "  Home  ! "  she 
ordered.  And  not  another  word  was  spoken  between  the  two  ladies 
during  the  remainder  of  the  drive  thus  singularly  curtailed. 


Chap  PER  XIX. 

AN   UNSOCIAL   EVENING. 

On  entering  the  bed-chamber  assigned  to  her  use,  Miss  Ashmead 
threw  herself  into  an  easy  chair,  and  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  she 
was  still  seated  there,  having  removed,  with  the  exception  of  her 
gloves,  none  of  her  out-door  garments.  Her  hands  clasped  in  front 
of  her,  and  her  brows  knit  in  a  troubled  frown,  she  was  revolving, 
over  and  over  again,  that  brief  scene  in  the  park — every  incident  of 
which  was  vividly  photographed  upon  her  mind.  But  no  amount  of 
puzzled  reflection  would  enable  her  to  arrive  at  anything  that  seemed 
like  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  it ;  neither  could  Olivia  see  what 
was  to  be  the  issue  of  the  affair  in  her  own  regard. 

Was  this  quarrel  which  it  had  brought  about  witli  Claudia  to 
prove  a  fatal  one  ?  If  so,  she  must,  of  course,  leave  the  house  at 
once.  Olivia  was  dismayed  at  the  notion  of  an  estrangement  from 
the  wife,  which  might  involve  also  an  estrangement  from  the  husband. 
But  how  could  it  be  averted  ? 

It  was  true  that,  in  accusing  her  hostess  so  bluntly  of  falsehood, 
Olivia  had  been  guilty  of  a  breach  of  conventional  good  manners — 
that  she  might  even  be  said  to  have  offered  her  an  insult.  But  then, 
the  thing  was  true  1  Without  a  shadow  of  doubt,  Claudia  had  lied 
to  her ;  and  though,  possibly,  she  might  bring  herself  to  apologise 
for  the  use  of  the  term,  Olivia  felt  that  she  could  not  withdraw  the 
charge.  On  the  contrary,  she  felt  that,  if  any  further  reference  were 
made  to  the  matter,  she  should  be  impelled  to  repeat  it.  Also,  to 
her  great  distress,  Olivia  was  conscious  that  something  very  like 
repulsion  had  been  awakened  in  her  breast  against  Claudia.  This 
repulsion  was  the  offspring  of  suspicion  and  doubt.  For  the  longer 
Olivia  thought  over  the  event  of  the  afternoon,  the  more  convinced 
she  felt  that  some  painful  and  discreditable  mystery  lay  at  the  back 
of  it    Why  should  those  two  women  have  been  so  alarmed  at  sight 


The  GenlUtnati's  Magazine. 

of  eadi  other?  A  blameless  life  could  have  nolhing  in  h  lo  jtisiity 
such  fear  of  another  human  being ;  and,  moreover,  the  fear  in  Claudia's 
face,  at  least,  had  been  of  a  guilty  nature.  This  much  Oliyia  (dl 
certain  of:  something  was  wrong;  some  miserable  secret  existed 
between  the  subjects  of  that  unexpected  encounter,  But,asloilie 
nature  of  that  secret,  she  could  form  no  plausible  conjecture.  Aj 
yet,  also,  she  could  not  determine  what  position  her  own  dulji 
required  her  lo  take  up  in  reference  to  the  affair. 

A  timid  knock  at  the  door  present)/  interrupted  these  disquittiog 
meditations,  and  Claudia  entered,  looking  flushed  and  nervous,  but, 
as  usual,  very  pretty  with  her  fragile,  appealing  kind  of  beauty. 

"Olivia,  don't  let  us  quarrel!''  she  said,  approaching  Mis 
Ashmead's  chair.  "  You  were  very  rude  to  say  what  you  did  to  me, 
but  I  should  not  like  to  have  any  disturbance  about  it." 

"  Nor  should  I,"  returned  Olivia :  "  that  would  be  very  painfuL" 

"And  very  silly,  too  t  In  fact  the  whole  thing  is  ridiculous.  I 
have  just  been  having  a  good  laugh  over  it  by  myself." 

"  Have  you?"  said  Olivia,  looking  hard  at  the  flushed  (accriii 
showed  no  present  sign  of  merriment. 

"  Think  how  preposterously  we  have  both  acted  !  You  fewyi 
because  I  chance  to  look  rather  earnestly  at  a  lady — if  she  aw  aWy 
(I  am  not  quite  sure  even  of  tbat)^-and,  under  the  impresaoo 
she  was  ill,  make  a  little  sound.  I  did,  I  believe,  utter  a  siig'b' 
ejaculation,  did  I  not?" 

Olivia  bowed  very  gravely. 

"You  conclude  upon  these  very  inadequate  premises,  that  I  kn*^ 
the  individual,"  resumed  Claudia.  "  I  deny  such  knowledge,  i***^ 
assure  you  that  she  is  a  perfect  stranger  to  me.  Then  you  thinkptO- 
per  to  accuse  me  of  falsehood,  and  I  get  into  a  temper  and  drivehom^ 
in  high  dudgeon.  Did  you  ever  know  anything  more  absurd?  Ho« 
do  you  suppose  it  would  sound  lo  a  third  person  if  repeated  »i'l* 
cause  of  a  rupture  between  us  ?  " 

"  /have  no  intention  of  referring  to  the  subject  in  the  presenw 
of  any  third  person,  Claudia,"  rejoined  her  companion,  "  and  if  «f 
are  to  avoid  a  rupture,  it  will  be  necessary  that  we  keep  silence  iboW 
it  between  ourselves— that  is,  unless  the  matter  may  be  treated  "illi 
truthfulness  on  both  sides." 

"  Really,  Miss  Ashmead  I  Upon  my  word,"  began  Claudia,  tnS- 
ing  red  and  white  by  turns,  "if  we  had  not  always  been  sudtgo* 
friends,  I  should  believe  you  wanted  to  force  a  quarrel  on  me." 

"  No,  do  not  believe  that,  Claudia,"  rejoined  the  other,  in » 
changed  and  softened  tone,  "  but  always  remember  this — that  if  y*" 


The  Unforeseen,  427 

should  ever  be  overtaken  by  trouble — if  you  should  ever  need  a  friend, 
I  will  be  a  true  friend  to  you." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  am  not  anticipating  any  trouble !  Why,  pray, 
should  you  suppose  it  likely  that  I  should  have  trouble?"  questioned 
Claudia,  in  sharp,  agitated  accents.  And  hardly  waiting  to  listen  to 
Olivia's  disclaimer  of  having  used  the  words  in  any  but  a  gene- 
ral sense,  and  without,  of  course,  any  knowledge  or  prevision  that 
could  give  them  significance,  she  walked  away  to  the  window  and 
stood  there  looking  out,  but  seeing  nothing  of  what  her  eyes  rested 
upon.  To  her  the  words  Olivia  had  just  spoken,  coming  as  they  did, 
like  an  echo  of  the  very  same  thing  said  by  Ella  Thome,  fifteen 
months  before,  had  sounded  full  of  terrible  significance. 

Why  should  both  these  friends  have  offered  to  stand  by  her  if 
"trouble"  befell  her?  Ella,  indeed,  had  positively  threatened  her 
with  such  trouble,  and  Olivia's  observation  had  struck  her  now  like  a 
repetition  of  that  evil  prognostic. 

Already  greatly  excited,  Claudia  shook  from  head  to  foot  in  an 
access  of  alarm,  so  that  she  had  to  lean  against  the  window-sill  for 
support.  Ever  since  her  marriage  she  had  enjoyed  an  almost  un- 
broken  sense  of  security  in  reference  to  her  unhappy  secret ;  and  now, 
just  in  proportion  to  the  unreasonableness  of  that  security  was  the 
unreasonableness  of  her  present  disquietude.  That  unexpected 
meeting  with  Madame  Vandeleur  in  Hyde  Park  had  affected  her  as 
an  earthquake  affects  the  sufferers  from  it — destroying  all  faith  in  the 
safety  or  stability  of  anything  in  heaven  or  earth.  She  had  believed 
that  leagues  of  ocean  rolled  between  herself  and  any  witness  of  her 
past  history — and,  lo !  the  worst  of  all  witnesses,  the  woman  to  whom 
she  had  bequeathed  her  child,  had  started  up  face  to  face  with  her, 
in  London  !  And  what  was  she  doing  here  ?  With  what  object  had 
she  come  to  England  ?  Was  it  to  follow  herself?  To  extract  more 
hush-money?  To  hang  about  her  with  the  constant  threat  of 
betrayal  ?  To  ruin  for  her  all  the  happiness  of  life  ?  So  coward  con- 
science "  mouldeth  goblins  swift,  as  firenzy,  thought."  Had  Claudia 
been  calm  enough  for  sober  reflection,  she  might  have  found  contra- 
diction to  these  distracting  suppositions  in  the  recollection  that 
Madame  Vandeleur  had  appeared  equally  surprised  with  herself  at 
the  encounter,  and  almost  equally  dismayed — that,  further,  instead  of 
making  any  use  of  it  in  the  way  of  threats  or  demands,  she  had 
hurried  off  without  even  offering  her  the  recognition  of  a  bow.  But, 
for  the  present,  Claudia  was  not  capable  of  giving  due  weight  to  any- 
thing that  opposed  itself  to  the  sudden  terror  that  had  laid  hold  of  her — 
the  sickening  unsettlement  of  all  her  ideas  induced  by  that  unlooked- 


The  Gentlewans  Magazine. 

for  apparition  of  Madame  and  her  children.  For  Claudia  had  dJi. 
tincily  seen  both  children,  though  only  with  a  momenury  nsiou. 
She  had  heard  Madame  address  the  boy  in  her  anns  as  "  Claude." 
But  that  had  not  been  Claude.  A  rapid  glance  aside  had  sbownhei 
little  son  (her  elder-born  and  forsaken  child)  to  Mrs.  Douglas  .A wdry, 
standing  near  the  heads  of  her  own  horses,  his  little  hand  stretched 
through  the  railings  in  a  vain  attempt  to  reach  and  fondle  the  nearer. 
The  child  possessed  quite  a  passion  for  animals ;  but  even  to  Madame 
Vandelcur  it  had  seemed  pathetic,  as  she  tore  hira  away  from  iteit 
neighbourhood,  that  the  little  fellow's  attention  should  have  betn 
absorbed  by  those  two  fine  chestnuts,  in  such  utter  ignorance  of  the 
fact  that  his  mothersal  behind  them  in  the  carriage.  To  Claudiilhe 
sight  had  been  more  than  pathetic.  It  had  stricken  her  lo  thehean, 
For  again,  as  on  that  former  occasion  when  he  had  been  broughl  in» 
her  presence,  her  maternal  instincts  had  yearned  towards  the  pretiy. 
aristocratic- looking  child,  who  looked  prettier  than  ever  to-day,  in 
his  dainty  velvet  costume  and  large  embroidered  linen  collar,  She 
would  have  given  anything  to  have  clasped  him  for  one  moment  to 
her  breast ;  and  it  was  the  thought  that  she  never  could,  never  nrnst 
do  so  again— that  even  to  see  him,  to  have  him  come  nearhtr, 
was  a  danger  which,  together  with  her  vague,  but  no  less  teniUe, 
alarm  on  the  score  of  Madame  Vandeleur's  presence  in  London,  i*s 
driving  Claudia,  as  she  felt,  half  distraught. 

Then,  again,  lo  add  to  her  wretchedness,  there  was  this  new  feU 
of,  and  anger  against,  Miss  Ashmead,  which  had  been  aroused  by  the 
letter's  candid  exhibition  of  distrust  and  disapprobation.  But,  al  >U 
hazards,  Claudia  felt  she  must  avoid  aggravating  her  difficuldes  by  ' 
quarrel  with  Olivia.  Swallowing  the  indignation,  therefore,  that  h»<i 
driven  her  to  the  window,  she  again  approached  the  chair  firom  whidl 
Miss  Ashmead  had  not  yet  risen,  and  having  patched  up  a  hasty  peace 
and  enjoined  upon  her  friend  silence  as  to  the  occasion  of  their  liul< 
fracas,  she  quitted  the  room,  smiling  back  at  Olivia  as  she  went  On 
the  mind  of  the  latter,  however,  this  brief  interview  and  the  sham  «■ 
conciliation  had  left  a  more  uncomfortable  impression  than  had  bw 
there  before. 

At  dinner  time  Olivia's  uneasiness  was  heightened  by  the  ob- 
ser\-ation  that  two  bright  spots,  as  of  feverish  excitement,  huraed  "" 
Claudia's  usually  delicately  tinted  cheeks,  and  also,  that  she  kept  on 
talking  incessantly  with  a  good  deal  more  fluency  than  reason. 

Douglas  had  brought  home  with  him  a  gentleman,  an  old  colleg* 
chum  whom  he  had  unexpectedly  met  this  afternoon  by  the  eotran'^ 
to  the  House  of  Commons,  and  whom  he  had  invited  to  dine  « 


The  U7ifor^sun,  429 

fUmille,  Dr.  Parks  was  a  rising  barrister  in  a  provincial  tov^n,  a  thin 
boyish-looking  man  of  thirty,  with  a  remarkably  shrill  piping  voice. 
He  was  a  clever  fellow,  but  a  thorough-paced  radical  and  democrat. 
Douglas,  on  the  other  hand,  was  conservative  in  principle.  The  two 
gentlemen  had  arranged  to  return  to  the  House  immediately  after 
dinner,  Dr.  Parks  having  a  ticket  for  the  Strangers'  Gallery  ;  and  a 
good  deal  of  the  conversation  during  the  meal  turned  upon  politics. 
Into  this  conversation,  Mrs.  Douglas  Awdry,  who  never  touched  a 
newspaper,  excepting  to  pick  out  tit-bits  of  gossip,  and  who  was  pro- 
foundly ignorant  as  to  all  questions  of  the  day,  kept  thrusting  most 
absurd  and  inconsequent  remarks.  Such  a  procedure  was  quite  out 
of  accord  with  Claudia's  usual  tact,  and  Olivia  noticed  her  husband 
looking  at  her  with  surprise  and  something  approaching  to  shame, 
whilst  the  guest  regarded  her  with  ill-concealed  amusement. 

To  withdraw  the  attention  of.  the  latter,  Olivia  presently  engaged* 
him  in  a  little  private  discussion  with  herself.     Unlike  the  majority 
of  ladies,  Miss  Ashmead  was  less  attached  to  a  party  than  to  principles. 
Her  inclinations  were  Liberal,  and  she  was  a  most  intelligent  political 
thinker.     Dr.  Parks  was  charmed  with  her  ;  and  during  the  rest  of 
the  dinner  he  could  talk  to  and  look  at  no  one  else.     And  Olivia 
was  really  very  good  to  look  at  Notwithstanding  Claudia's  insistence, 
that  she  was  no  longer  a  girl,  it  is  certain  that  at  no  period  of  her 
life  had  she  been  more  beautiful.     "  II  faut  soufTrir  pour  6tre  belle," 
according  to  the  French  proverb,  and  there  is  some  truth  in  the 
saying.     Olivia  had  not  suffered  disappointment  to  lapse  into  green 
and  yellow  melancholy.     On  the  contrary,  she  had  battled  with  her 
sorrow  and  turned  it  into  strength.     With  a  sound  mind  in  a  sound 
body,  her  full,  compact  figure,  and  the  rich  colour  that  mantled  under 
her  crearay-brown  skin,  witnessed  to  her  perfect  physical  health, 
whilst  intelligence  and  truth  shone  in  her  dark  but  clear  grey  eyes, 
and  a  sweet  womanly  gravity  expressed  itself  in  the  curves  of  her 
rather  large  mouth  and  well-moulded  chin. 

As  Dr.  Parks  and  Captain  Awdry  were  driving,  in  the  brougham 
of  the  latter,  towards  the  Houses  of  Parliament  (they  had  left  the 
table  directly  after  the  ladies),  the  young  barrister  spoke  in  terms  of 
such  eloquent  enthusiasm  and  admiration  of  Miss  Ashmead,  that 
Douglas  laughingly  invited  him  on  a  visit  to  Clavermere  in  October, 
in  order  to  afford  him  an  opportunity  for  improving  the  acquaintance. 
The  invitation  was  accepted  with  cordial  gratitude,  and  Dr.  Parks, 
who  had  to  leave  London  next  day,  looked  forward  through  the  inter- 
vening  weeks  with  most  agreeable  anticipations  of  his  visit  But  when 
October  came  no  invitation  reached  the  young  man,  nor,  because. 


430  The  Gentlemans  Magazine. 

under  the  pressure  of  exciiing  experiences,  Douglas  had  bytfiallirae 
forgotten  even  that  lie  had  given  it,  any  apology  for  the  omissinn. 
Thus,  Olivia  Ashmead  lost  an  almost  certain  and,  in  niany  respects, 
unexceptionable  suitor;  for  although  Dr.  Parks  and  she  never  m« 
again,  it  was  years  before  the  impression  she  had  made  upon  him  in 
that  brief  hour  of  intercourse  had  entirely  faded  from  the  tiever 
barrister's  mind. 

As  for  Olivia,  she  way  quite  ignorant,  and  no  doubt,  had  sfie 
known  it,  would  have  been  quite  indifferent  to  the  fact  that  she  hiid 
made  such  an  impression.  In  another  direction,  however,  she  wu 
beginning  to  suspect  an  admirer,  and  to  find  the  suspidon  extretneli 
distasteful  and  annoying.  Ever  since  her  arrival  in  London  Mr. 
Estcourt  had  shown  himself  excessively  attentive  and  complimenli^ 
towards  her.  At  first  Olivia  had  been  simply  amused  by  the  elderly 
gentleman's  courtesies  ;  but  of  late  she  had  found  them  growing 
rather  too  pressing  and  significant  to  please  her;  and  this  evening, 
at  dinner,  she  had  been  almost  shocked  by  the  persistency  of  his 
gaze  and  the  pointed  manner  in  which  he  had  addressed  the  fe* 
observations  he  had  made  during  the  repast  to  her. 

Displeased,  therefore,  both  with  father  and  daughter,  Olivij  (rfl, 
this  evening,  no  inclination  for  the  society  of  either,  and,  as  M 
excuse  for  avoiding  conversation,  she  went  straight  to  the  piano  "« 
leaving  the  dinner  table  and  remained  there,  singing  and  playing,fof 
upwards  of  an  hour.  The  instrument,  which  was  a  very  fine  one, 
stood  within  a  second  and  smaller  dramng-room,  separated  tj  < 
marble  archway  from  the  main  apartment  Bolli  rooms  weteurilj 
and  elegantly  furnished  in  while  and  gold,  and  tliick  curtains  of  white 
satin,  heavily  embroidered  with  gold  thread,  hung  across  the  archisy 
and  were  almost  as  effective  in  deadening  sound  as  a  doorway  vtoold 
have  been.  Olivia's  voice,  as  has  already  been  stated,  was  of  3»eO' 
superior  order—a  full,  rich  contralto.  To  exercise  it  was  always* 
delight  to  her,  and  an  almost  sure  way  of  obtaining  temponuy  ot 
livion  from  grief  or  anxiety.  To-night  it  helped  her  to  lose  sightof 
the  uneasiness  awakened  within  her  by  that  mysterious  little  adveniwe 
of  her  young  hostess  in  the  Park,  as,  likewise,  of  her  more  personal 
subject  for  disquietude.  But  to  the  latter  she  was  rather  sbifply 
brought  back,  when,  at  length,  she  reluctantly  closed  the  piano,  M 
the  sound  of  a  heavy  sigh  behind  her.  Turning,  she  found  ^• 
Estcourt  reclining  in  an  easy  chair  a  few  feet  distant. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  there,  Mr.  Estcourt?"  she  inquin4 
with  a  little  acerbity  in  her  tone,  "  and  where  is  Claudia  ?" 

"  I  suppose  Claudia  is  in  the  other  room,"  he  replied.  "  I  ^^ 


The  Unforeseen,  431 

forgotten  her  and  everything  else,  dear  Miss  Ashmead,  in  listening 
to  your  exquisite  voice.  I  have  been  here  since  you  began  to  sing, 
and  it  has  been  like  the  melody  of  angels  !  I  should  be  content  to 
spend  the  rest  of  my  life  in  sitting  near  you  and  hearing  you  sing." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  like  to  spend  mine  in  singing  to  you, 
Mr.  Estcourt,"  retorted  Olivia,  laughing,  "  nor  in  listening  to  high- 
flown  compliments  on  the  subject  either.  But  let  us  go  to  Claudia," 
she  added,  rising  to  cut  short  the  interview. 

Decidedly  there  was  sometliing  about  Mr.  Estcourt  himself,  as 
well  as  about  his  manner,  which  Olivia  did  not  like.  In  his  un- 
welcome attentions  and  somewhat  fulsome  flatteries,  her  intuitions 
warned  her  that  he  had  certain  designs,  and  yet,  despite  all  this  show 
of  admiration,  she  felt  almost  sure  that  he  did  not  feel  for  her  any 
real  affection,  either  of  a  paternal  or  marital  nature. 

Claudia  did  not  prove  to  be  in  the  outer  drawing-room.  Mr. 
Estcourt  opined  that  she  must  have  gone  to  pay  a  little  visit  to  the 
nursery,  and  challenged  Miss  Ashmead,  whilst  awaiting  her  return, 
to  a  game  of  chess.  Olivia,  who  was  fond  of  the  game,  assented, 
and  both  became  presently  absorbed  in  it  In  Canada,  Mr.  Estcourt 
had  been  noted  as  a  skilled  player ;  but  this  evening  he  was  very 
slow  in  his  movements,  his  fingers  hovered  nervously  over  the 
board,  and  he  often  pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  as  though 
suffering  from  headache,  which,  however,  he  denied  to  be  the  case. 

In  the  end  the  game  proved  to  be  a  "  drawn  "  one,  and  just  as 
the  combatants  were  pushing  back  their  chairs  from  the  table  a  time- 
piece of  curious  workmanship,  standing  on  a  cabinet  close  by,  began 
to  chime  the  hour  of  eleven. 

Startled  to  find  it  so  late,  Olivia  sprang  up  in  something  like  alarm 
at  the  continued  absence  of  the  young  mistress  of  the  house. 

"  Where  can  Claudia  be  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  must  really  go  and 
look  for  her  .  .  .  Oh,  Claudia ! "  As  the  words  lefl  her  lips  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  room  had  been  pushed  open  and  Claudia 
had  entered  from  without  There  was  a  garden  at  this  side  of  the 
house,  small  as  a  London  garden  in  such  a  situation  was  sure  to  be, 
but  beautifully  kept 

"  Oh,  Claudia,"  repeated  Olivia,  approaching  her,  "  how  pale  you 
look  !  And  how  cold  your  hands  are  !  How  long  have  you  been 
out  in  the  garden  ?" 

"All  evening,  I  believe.  Why,  what  time  is  it?  "  Claudia  answered, 
Ughtly  ;  but  her  teeth  chattered  as  she  spoke,  and  the  feverish  flush 
had  left  her  face.     As  Olivia  had  declared,  she  looked  very  pale. 


The  Uu/orese€7i.  433 


Chapi'kr  XX. 

PREGNANT   FANTASIES. 

Would  Claudia  be  "  all  right "  by  the  morning  ?  Olivia  felt  some 
doubt  on  the  subject,  and  her  doubt  was  justified  by  the  event.  It 
was  a  little  later  than  usual  when  she  came  downstairs  next  morning ; 
but  Olivia  found  no  one  in  the  breakfast  parlour  but  Mr.  Estcourt. 
An  open  letter  in  his  hand,  that  gentleman  was  restlessly  pacing  the 
apaitment  to  and  fro  ;  and  although  he  paused  on  Miss  Ashmead's 
entrance,  and  turned  to  greet  her,  Olivia  fancied  that,  for  a  moment, 
he  looked  as  though  he  scarcely  recognised  her.  To  her  satisfaction, 
moreover,  his  manner  was  changed  from  that  of  last  evening,  and 
he  quite  neglected  to  persevere  with  his  somewhat  antiquated  love- 
making.  At  all  events,  he  had  not  pulled  himself  together  sufficiently 
r, .  from  the  preoccupying  interests  of  his  letter  to  offer  her  a  single 
\    compliment  before  Captain  Awdry  made  his  appearance. 

Her  very  first  glance  at  the  latter  showed  Olivia  that  something 
was  wrong.  All  Douglas's  little  habits  and  personal  idiosyncrasies 
were  familiar  to  an  observation  quickened  by  love,  and  his  "  cousin  " 
at  once  detected  certain  signs  which,  even  in  boyhood,  had  invariably 
marked  occasions  of  mental  disturbance  on  the  young  fellow^s  part. 
The  first  of  these  was  that,  as  he  came  into  the  room,  Douglas 
walked  with  his  right  hand  tightly  clenched  and  held  a  little  behind 
his  erect,  soldierly  figure  ;  the  second  that  he  kept  gnawing  gently, 
but  incessantly,  at  his  lower  lip.  These  actions,  in  Miss  Ashmead's 
opinion,  demonstrated  themselves.  They  evidenced  (so  it  had 
always  seemed  to  her)  a  nature  sensitive  to  feel  and  to  suffer,  but 
strong  to  exercise  self-control. 

"  Olivia,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand,  but  forgetting  to  wish  her  the 
customary  "  good  morning,"  "  my  wife  is  not  at  all  well  this  ipoming. 
Indeed,  I  am  afraid  she  is  very  ill.  I  have  just  sent  off  for  a 
physician." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry !  I  will  run  up  to  see  her ! "  exclaimed 
Olivia  in  quick  sympathy. 

"  AVhat  did  you  say,  Awdry  ?    Who  is  not  well  ?    Claudia  ?  " 

**  Yes,  Mr.  Estcourt  I  beg  your  pardon  ? "  added  the  young 
man,  becoming  conscious  that  he  had  acted  rather  strangely  in 
addressing  the  information  first,  and  exclusively,  to  the  friend  of  his 
wife,  rather  than  to  her  father.  "  Yes,  it  is  poor  Claudia.  She  has 
passed  a  very  restless  and  feverish  night;  and  this  morning  her 
hands  are  burning  hot,  and  she  complains  of  a  violent  headache.    I 

vox,  CCLVIII.     NO.  1853.  H  H 


434  The  Gcutlemans  Magazine. 

hope  it  may  turn  out  to  be  nothing  serious,  but  1  feel,  1 
good  deal  concerned." 

Mr.  EstcDiirt  thrust  his  lelter  into  hLs  pocket,  and  rewarded  his 
son-in-law,  for  a  second  or  two,  with  a  blank  stare.  "  Claudia  ill?" 
he  repealed,  as  though  taking  in  the  intelligence  ivilh  difkuliy, 
"  W'q  must  have  advice.     W'c  must  send  for  a  doctor." 

"  I  have  done  so  already,  sir.  Jacobs  has  gone  for  Dr.  BellatDjr. 
who,  I  believe,  is  a  very  clever  man.  He  will  wail  to  bring  hin 
back.  Don't  go  upstairs  yet,  Olivia  !  Breakfast  is  in,  you  see.  la 
us  have  it  first,  please  ! "  He  placed  a  chair  for  her  at  the  IfUb 
"  Besides,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Don't  you  think  this  has  beo^ 
coming  on  for  some  days  ?  " 

"  I  think,  at  any  rate,  that  Claudia  appeared  rather  unwell  lut 
evening,"  Olivia  admitted. 

"  Very  unwell,  I  am  afraid.  Yes,  I  noticed  how  flushed  ^ 
looked,  poor  child,  and  how  unlike  herself  she  seemed  io  man;  n]^ 
How  I  regret  that  I  went  out  1  I  ought  to  have  remained  with  hs 
—I  wish  I  had  !  " 

"/wish  so  too,  Douglas,  because  ..."  Olivia  hesitated.  'I 
think  it  my  duty  to  mention  something  that  1  fear  will  disOTB 
you."  And  she  went  on  to  tell  him  how  Claudia  had  spcot  the 
entire  evening  in  the  garden  in  her  thin  dress,  and  with  no  coveiin( 
on  head  or  shoulders. 

Douglas  pushed  back  his  chair  from  the  table. 
"Good  heavens !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  And  how  came  you  to  l«t 
her  do  it?  My  poor  darling  i  With  her  delicate  constitution,  it  is 
enough  to  kill  her.  1  ...  1  ...  "  He  paused  suddenly,  under  the 
sense  that  he  was  glaring  at  Olivia  Ashmead  in  reproachful  aoga, 
and  that  she  was  returning  his  gaze  with  a  strange,  intent  look— I 
look  which  he  could  not  exactly  fathom,  but  which  soiDCbof 
reminded  him  of  that  which  he  had  seen  in  the  eyes  of  a  favouriM 
dog  of  his  own,  as  it  was  led  off  to  be  shot  on  account  of  soBS 
incurable  disease  In  another  moment,  the  look  had  so  far  penetnted 
the  young  man's  understanding  as  to  cause  him  lo  ask  himself,  will 
a  thrill  of  pain  and  dismay,  whether  it  was  possible  that  Mi* 
Ashmead  still  cared  for  him  more  than  as  a  cousin  or  a  friend,  h 
that  case,  how  must  his  own  complete  forgetfulness  of  iheir  Ibnuf 
relations  have  affected  her !  How  must  this  excessive  anxiety  (O 
his  wife's  account,  which  had  led  him  to  speak  to  her  as  he  hadjoa 
done,  strike  her !  A  hot  blush  of  distress  and  confusion  mounted  to 
the  very  roots  of  Captain  Awdry's  hair,  "Pray,  pray,  pardon  mc!' 
he  implored.     "  What  a  bmte  you  must  think  me  !     I  have  no  ligta 


The  Unforeseen.  435 

to  blame  you  for  Claudia's  dcings,  or  to  expect  you  to  act  as  her 
keeper.  Please  try  to  forgive  my  brusquerie\  ...  I  think,  how- 
ever,  that  you^  Mr.  Estcourt,  might  have  had  some  regard  to  your 
daughter's  health,"  he  added,  turning  upon  that  gentleman.  "  Were 
you  with  her  out-of-doors  ?  Really,  I  cannot  understand  the  business 
at  all !  It  seems  to  me  such  " —  he  flashed  out  again  into  resentful 
indignation — "  such  unparalleled  carelessness." 

*'  But  Awdry,  my  dear  fellow,  we  didn't  know  where  she  was — 
citber  Miss  Ashmead  or  I,"  began  Mr.  Estcourt,  in  a  feeble,  fatuous 
kind  of  way.     "We  .  .  ." 

But  Olivia  broke  in  upon  his  apology.  To  offer  Douglas  any  satis- 
fiictoiy  explanation  of  the  fact  that  Claudia  had  chosen  to  spend  the 
evening  apart  from  her  father  and  herself,  and  that  she  had  made  no 
effort  to  have  it  otherwise,  would,  she  had  reflected,  be  impossible, 
irithout  an  allusion  to  the  disturbing  events  of  the  afternoon.  It  would 
be  better  to  stop  any  further  discussion  of  the  matter.  "  The  simple 
tnitfay  Douglas,  is  this,"  she  observed  quietly — "  I  was  at  the  piano 
for  a  long  time  after  dinner,  and  I  believe  Mr.  Estcourt  was  listening  to 
me.  Then,  we  had  a  game  of  chess,  and  in  the  interest  of  it  failed 
to  notice  Claudia's  continued  absence.  You  must  lay  the  blame 
where  you  choose — on  Claudia  for  not  looking  after  us,  or  on  us  for 
not  looking  after  her.  £ut  there  can  be  no  use,  it  appears  to  me,  in 
either  excuses  or  recriminations  about  the  matter." 

Douglas  bowed.  "  You  are  perfectly  right,"  he  replied.  "  I  am 
behaving  very  discourteously.  I  must  ask  Mr.  Estcourt's  forgive- 
ness now  I  My  uneasiness  on  poor  Claudia's  account  is  making  me 
■hockingly  cantankerous,  I  am  afraid,  sir." 

Nevertheless,  it  was  evident  that,  despite  this  acknowledgment, 
the  young  husband  was  feeling  seriously  disaffected  against  the  elder, 
at  least,  of  his  two  companions ;  and  that  breakfast  did  not  prove  a 
very  pleasant  or  social  meal.  It  had  barely  come  to  an  end  before 
Dr.  Bellamy  was  announced.  This  gentleman's  report  upon  his 
patient  was  somewhat  vague.  He  pronounced  no  clear  diagnosis 
either  as  to  the  nature  of  the  attack  or  its  probable  cause.  He  ac- 
knowledged, however,  that  the  symptoms  were  a  little  serious,  and 
proposed  to  call  again  in  the  evening.  But  by  the  evening  it  was 
plain  enough,  without  professional  assurance  on  the  subject,  that  the 
symptoms  were  becoming  more  than  a  little  serious.  All  day 
Claudia  had  been  tossing  from  side  to  side  in  a  state  of  high  fever, 
and,  once  or  twice,  towards  the  close  of  it,  Olivia  fancied  that  she 
was  growing  rather  light-headed.  The  next  day  this  suspicion  was 
put  beyond  a  doubt    At  intervals  the  invalid's  mind  did  unques« 


H  H  a 


If  Da-j,; 


icr  \u 


x-j:..]:  of  licr  lin; 
w:::i.>.  goes  wit 
.■.•.r!.;L.!y  inJucc 


lir  i-r-iM  her  civjisi  jr,er.i-s;  :.T.d  ]uticTit  nurse. 
:s^-jr.  :a;sci  nurs;  hid  been  cngjtred  from  one  ol 


The  Un/o 

Uid,  also,  that  Claudia's  maid,  and  oilier  of  the  servants,  showed  th(^ 

Wndliesl  readiness  to  attend  upon  tlieir  young  mistress.     After  the 

iW  few  days,  however.  Miss  Ashmead  would  admit  none  of  tlie  latter 

to  the  room,  and  the  nurse  and  she  shared  between  thetn,  night  and 

day,  those  onerous  and  painful  vigils.     Painful,  at  least,  they  proved 

Id  Olivia,  and  something  mote  than  painful  ! 

Ever  since  she  had  known  Douglas  Awdry's  wife,  Olivia  had  been 

Jying  her  character^looking,  so  far  as  she  could  look,  into  her 

id.     But,  to  some  extent,  her  scrutiny  had  been  baffled,  and 

ugh  she  had  shifted  her  point  of  view  nil  round  her  object,  she 

hid  found  but  fevs-  and  small  apertures  to  which  to  apply  her  eye. 

Howmany  of  us,  indeed,  can  do  more  than  peep  through  a  very  dark 

lens  into  the  natures  even  of  those  who  are  nearest  and  dearest  to 

?    But  now,  with  the  loss  of  consciousness,  certain  barricades  had 

let),  and  Claudia's  mind  and  soul  seemed  to  be  laid  bare  to  her 

inion's  gaze.     In  its  present  condition,  however,  the  poor  girl's 

Had  was  like  a  broken  mirror,  or  a  wind-swejit  lake.     Tliough  it 

objects,  it  reflected  them  all  awry  and  distorted,  so  that  the 

shape  and  meaning  of  them  could  not  be  discerned. 

5iill,  among  the  many  strange  notions,  memories,  or  imaginings 

*tiicb  passed  like  a  changing  and  troubled  phantasmagoria  across  the 

field  of  Claudia's  disturbed  intellect,  and  to  a  large  extent  beneath 

ivia's  vision,  there  was  one  idea  so  persistently  present — one  object 

uniformly  mirrored  amongst  those  broken  reflection s^that  the 

Wluctant  observer  began,  bye-and-bye,  to  feel  sure — albeit  that  she 

^ranb  with  unutterable  dismay  from  the  conclusion — that  this  impres- 

soa  must  represent  a  reality.     And  what  was  that  impression?     It 

one  wherewith  the  unfortunate  patient  was  not  only  continuously 

hiUnted,  but  as  continuously  excited.     Living  now  almost  entirely 

in  the  past,  memory  had,  nevertheless,  played  poor  Claudia  a  strange 

The  fact  of  Hubert  Stephens'  death  appeared  to  have  been 

lotted  from  her  recollection,  and  the  notion  that  she  had  married 

Douglas  Awdry  whilst  he  was  still  alive  had  taken  full  possession  of 

her  disordered  facuhies.     Further,  in  her  Ilincy,  she  rarely  got  beyond 

,Jier  wedding-day,  and  never  away  from  Canada. 

Ella  !  Ella !  "  she  would  murmur  in  a  thrilling  whisper,  seizing 

lliviabylhe  arm.     "He  was  in  the  church — Hubert— didn't  you  see 

0?     He  watched  me  marry  Douglas ;  and  he  is  coming  on  after  us 

denounce  me  at  the  wedding-breakfast,  before  all  those  people, 

1  to  claim  me  as  his  wife — his  I  his !    But  I'll  go  back  and  kill 

rim.     Ella,  come  with  me,  and  help  me  to  kill  him^to  kill  him!  to 

rin  him  !  "     Her  voice  rising  lo  a  shriek  of  wild  rage. 


43^  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

At  other  times,  haq)ing  still  on  the  same  notion  of  the  one  hus- 
band having  witnessed,  or  become  cognisant  of  hermorriage  vith tbe 
other,  she  would  offer  enormous  bribes  to  Olivia,  or  the  nurse,  or  to 
imaginary  people  whom  she  would  beckon  from  corners  of  the  toon, 
to  commit  for  her  the  murder  that  would  free  her  from  exposure  ud 
disgrace. 

All  this,  however,  though  reiterated  again  and  ag:>in.  iiith  bat 
slight  variations  of  the  scene,  might  not  have  sufficed  to  &c  the 
dreadful  idea  in  Miss  Ashmead's  head  that  these  ravings  and  deliiioB 
alarms  had  a  foundation  of  truth  as  their  basis,  but  for  the  cooErmatay 
testimony  afforded  by  another  phase  of  the  same  idea. 

"  Klla  !*'..,  Poor  Olivia  was  just  sinking  into  a  doze  one  after- 
noon, by  the  bedside  of  the  patient,  who  lay  in  seeming  quietude, 
when  she  was  startled  by  a  clutch  of  her  shoulder  and  the  sound  of 
that  blood-curdling  whisper  so  common  in  cases  of  mental  alieiutioi 
'*  Ella,  I  know  what  to  do!  I'll  go  in  the  night  I'll  go  in  thenigliL 
and  burn  down  the  church — the  church  and,  ha  ■  ha  !  fhe  rciJiiUfl 
Then  there'll  be  no  proof-  no  proof  of  tlie  marriage  1  Isn't  itagood 
idea?  ril  burn  the  church  !  TU  go  now  ...  I  shall  just catdi the 
boat.  .  .  .  Don't  hold  me  I " 

**IIush,  hush,  dear!"  Olivias  firm  hand  restrained  her  from 
rising  as  she  had  attempted  to  do.  *'What  chiuch  are  you  talking 
of,  Claudia  ?  '  she  askeil  soothingly. 

*'\Vhat  church?  As  if  you  didn't  know!  The  church  at  Sl 
Antoine — the  little  church  where  Hubert  and  I  were  married.  Ah! 
how  I  hate  him  I  .  .  .  But  I'll  burn  down  the  church  !  I'll  get  the 
rcjjistcr  and  tear  it  to  pieces !  Then  no  one  can  know.  .  .  .  Ella, 
you  cruel  thing,  let  me  go  !  Let  me  go  1  I  want  to  get  back  before 
I  )0Uj;las  misses  me.  He  has  gone  for  a  walk  with  Mrs.  Cam])ion.  .  . . 
I  wi>h  we  liadn't  come  here,  to  Montreal !  It's  dangerous,  its  vei)' 
dangernus  to  have  come  here.  ...  I  unll  go,  I  tell  you  !  The 
boat  is  just  starting  to  cross  the  river — I  shall  miss  it  if  you  keep 
me. 

Wrought  up  to  a  frenzy  of  agitation  by  this  conception— this  in- 
sensate purj^ose.  real  enough  to  the  poor  sufferer — Claudia  on  this,  as 
also  on  several  subsequent  occasions  when  laid  hold  upon  by  similar 
notions  in  resi>ect  to  the  destruction  of  the  record  of  her  first  marriage, 
had  to  be  withheld  by  main  force  from  leaving  her  bed.  And  in  the 
use  of  that  force  Miss  Ashmead  was  of  necessity  aided  by  the  sick 

nurse. 

Tlus  woman,  Mrs.  Allen  by  name,  was  a  tall,  masculine-looking 
personage,  with  a  pair  of  powerful,  muscular  arms,  as  hard  to  the 
touch,  almost,  as  bars  of  iron.     Her  Hrnnd  shoulders,  massive  bust, 


The  Unforeseen.  439 

anJ  firm  round  waist  were  encased  in  a  neat  blacli  merino  dress,  and 
she  wore  a  spotless  white  apron  and  quaker-like  cap.  Her  face  was 
large,  like  the  rest  of  her,  with  a  heavy  under  jaw  and  a  very  decided 
mouslache  on  the  upper  hp.  The  expression  was  impassive,  even 
Stolid,  but  not  disagreeable.  As  she  moved  about  the  room  her  step 
IDS  as  Ught  as  if  she  had  weighed  a  hundred  pounds  instead  of  twelve 
stone ;  her  voice  was  soft,  and  her  manners  gentle. 

"  I  Itust,  Mrs.  Allen,"  observed  Olivia  one  day — giving  expression, 
it  length,  to  an  anxiety  which  had  been  weighing  upon  her  ever  since 
the  fancied  occasion  for  it  had  arisen—"  I  trust  that  you  never  repeat 
anything  that  may  be  said  by  your  patients  out  of  the  sick-room — ■ 
Mpecialiy  things  said  when  in  a  state  of  delirium  ?  " 

"Bless  me,  no!"  protested  the  woman.  "Why,  your  ladyship,  it 
just  goes  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other,  ail  that  rubbishing 
nonsense  does.  I  never  even  listen— leastways,  if  I  do  listen  for  a 
■ooment,  'tis  only  to  smile  at  the  poor  dears  and  their  daft  talk  about 
things  as  never  was  and  never  could  be  except  in  their  own  demented 
Orpins — begging  your  pardon,  my  lady — miss,  I  mean." 

Even  a  great  woman  (physically)  may  have  a  weakness;  and 
^virse  Allen's  weakness  was  a  desire  to  be  supposed  to  be  constantly 
'^  attendance  upon  the  upper  ten  thousand.  As  a  mode  of  impress- 
^glhis  fiction  upon  employers  of  the  untitled  class,  she  was  in  the 
^*».bit  of  addressing  them  with  careless  facility  as  "your  lordship"  or 
jour  ladyship,"  and  then  hastily  correcting  the  mistake. 
"  I  dare  say  you  have  nursed  a  good  many  cases  of  brain-fever?  " 
5^jesrioned  Miss  Ashmead — noticing  neither  the  title  nor  its  witli- 
**«awal. 

"  La  1  yes,  miss — dozens  and  dozens  of  them.  I've  been  engaged, 
*O0,  in  a  private  waj',  to  take  charge  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  (all  among 
^lie  quality,  you  understand)  as  had  gone  entirely  out  of  their  minds, 
oat  as  their  friends  didn't  hke  to  put  in  an  asylum.  Dear  me,  yes! 
JVe  seen  a  deal  of  insane  people,  my  lady — madam,  I  should  say," 
"  And  I  suppose  they  all  get  hold  of  strange  fancies  ?  " 
"All  of  tliem.  Yes,  miss,  and  sticks  to  them,  just  like  this  poor 
^ung  lady,  who  never  did  no  harm,  I'll  be  bound,  in  all  her  life,  and 
JgeX.  fancies  she  has  committed  bigamy.  Listen,  now — she's  got  that 
.church  afire  at  last,  bless  her  !  " 

The  conversation  had  taken  place  immediately  after  a  violent 
Stni^le  to  rise,  on  the  patient's  part,  and  Claudia  was  now  lying  ex- 
3i3U5ted  and  motionless,  with  her  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed  upwards, 
ttiough  it  was  evident  her  straining  gaze  saw  something  very  different 
from  the  carved  ceiling  of  the  room,  or  the  satin  canopy  of  her  bed. 


44^-' 


The   GenilLmans  Magazinu 


••  ScL-,  liow  l!ic  tlinie-^  IcMp  out  of  i]ie  rzof,  E'.".i,  ar.l  f.T'ir'V:Di 
the  ^iccpK'.'  she  Was  muttering.      "•  I>ut   I  do  wish  ir.-;  vcsin- tciiV; 
burn  f.i^icr  '.     Ah,  look  !  the  wail  lias  fallen  down — I  c^r.  see  'xisA, 
,     .     .     "1  here  i^  the   book  on  the  tabk* — tiie  re Js'x:  boo'ri— l^::; 
nj^cn  !     I  1't.liLvc  ii  i-i  at  the  I>age  wiicrc  my  name  is  '.vriiien.   Com; 
nearer.     Vc*.  I    -ec  it — I  see  it!      Claudia   Mstcoun,  in  ^Uu'.'i  iir^c, 
lar^c  '.e*wi.>'     And  hi>   is  so   .<mall.     That  wv.s  because  he ^ss so 
ncrvi.::-*.    l>un't  yuu  remember,  Klla,  he  would  no:  let  ir.e  waichlin 
wr.ie  hi"i  name?     .\nd  afterwards  he  covered   i:  \\\\\\  ihc  blotdn; 
|a;.cr?     He  was  far  more  ncr>'OUs  liian  I  was.     .     .     .    Now,  re*. 
;:  >  l!...*:n.; !     .     .     .     Let  us  run  away,  Ella,     reojwe  are  coming lo 
>ve  w!.a:  tl'.e  l:..::t  !<....      Let  u-  run  awav  and  riide." 

•■  -N"   A.  :!-a:  there,  il^  all  real  to  her,  joor  Iavl\  :"  remar'iicd  Mrs. 
A!!^::.  u!.   .  :'.  'ii^h  no:  as  a  nilea  i:reat  talker,  would  occoiicraiiv l* 
!.  :  :^  o!  .:.;rn;liiv.     **ri]e:r  fancies  is  ah\ nvs  real  to  them. 
:  h  -w   si.iv.     N.iw.  I  onte   had   a  case  of  a  cent'eman— : 
.    1    ^'..o'-*..l    s.iv— thou::h    I'M     mention    no   names— who 
^-v'.:"..:'.  c'.cv'ur.:.     I:  wasn't  a  fever  with  him.     He'd  licen 
::.-K.   -r." -rtur-.ate'.y.  and  had  .^«.'ne  clean  out  of  his  rr.ind. 
^''  .    . ;.    .;■'."  ..r  ".!y  ':'^"..eve  ::.  but  it's  true  as  the  Gosjiel,  your  l.idyship, 
:!.:!.-.  u     .'.  .r":  .i:>Aer  when  we  s;  v^ke  to  him,  unless  we  called  him 
.\-.:   .•  e      T"  .■:  «.:>  :".e  name  of  an  eiej'hant  he'd  seen  in  (ierrarmy, 
:   .-.  -.  :      A:.v:  ^\!.^n  we  wanted  him  to  have  his   meals,  we  had  to 
-..!-'  \;  .-.  .-  •  "  .■- '  ■  Ai:  or  a  table,  and  iie*«l  take  it  up  with  i::s  lips, 
.:-    .  :'.;r...el  u..-  "  >  :r.:r.k.  .w.d  I'op  !:  into  a  box.  like  he'd  seen  r.e 
•.  .•  '  ..v.:  »;  .  .:■  '.  :: -Vi  rir.j  a  bell  f.-r  his  keerer,  which,  ti:ev  sa v.  used 
:     v.'s.     ..:  :'  ,:  :  .  r.ey  .-."■.i  ^ive  h.im  .;  I  un.     And  afier  that  he'd  sit 
v".   A  -.  ..  .-.  ^.-.:'.l;.  .-.n  zr.l  :,  r.obleman  >hould,  and  have  his  dinner 


>e 


•A 


*.  • . 


:...:.  ;. .  .:  -;.y.  w.>  .;  ^ase  of  jiermanent  insanity.^"  j.ut  in 


\ ' 


'  \  ^^.  :.:.:.'.",  \  ..:  ■  ^::r..ir..:*.:  o:  :jm;  .rarv,  it's  all  the  same  for 

V.'  ..c<.    :.:.:--. i  :!.c  r...7se.  "  I  ^  ?..".d  :e'.i  y.)u  tales  by  the  dozen,  of 

irc.r    '.-i--'  :■::.:■>.      r.:e:e  w.:s  one  -.entleman — well.  /V  wasn't  a 

•:r."..  '* ..:  ar.   I:  >' •:'..•.:*..     Hj  used  :.'»  th:n'K  he   saw  a  peacock — a 

'vac.v'x.'  >.j  v.-..'.  1  :: — --.-s:::::*..:  o".  :'.".o  f.o:  oi  his  bed  blowim;  a 

ivrr..-.  iM-      Ar.i  1  w*. :.  "..-.dv  •.  .-.liL".:  ^^"■.  :•  'L-^lieved  she  was  the  Kmriress 

l:t*£Th.r.c  ;  ar..'.  .'.n.t'r.er  «>.?  u   u'd  h.'.\e  ::  :.".a:  she  was  an  alabaster 

vi>e.     r>i  cr'ti"!  :*";../-.:  ::  \cr\-  v;:r:o-<  and  •u.-.-'linj."  pursued  Mrs. 

.VHec  rer.cc:-.\^'v.  ":;:.•.:  veov'.e.  i\e:\  when  their  brains   is  wronj;, 

sboujdcvtr  co:v.e  :o  t'^.ir.'v  :>.ir.:5e'.\is  s^me  one  else  than  who  they 

are.    Ikcxi5«.  yoj  ye«,  vss.  ;".';;  d  :::*:"=.  :'-'.cy  tell  us  that  our  bodies 


The  Unforeseen, 


1 

lat  was  iherff^^n 


is  always  changing,  and  thai  there  ain't  one  bit  of  us  left  ihat  was 
;t  jcar  or  two  ago.     Yet  we  always  know  we're  the  same  persons ;  i 
It  RIU5I  be  the  mind  that  knows  it,  and  it  seems  like  as  if,  even  n 
J.  mind's  injured,  it  ought  to  know  whose  mind  it  is." 

In  her  bungling  fashion  Nurse  Alien  had  stated  a  very  c 
problem— one  which  it  would  be  interesting  to  learn  how  metaphysi- 
cians, who,  in  their  systems  of  philosophy,  lay  such  stress  on,  and 
mite  so  great  use  of  the  "unity  of  the  ego,"  would  explain  from 
their  point  of  view — i.e.  this  loss  of  the  consciousness  of  personal 
ideality. 

The  question,  however,  whether  in  its  physiological  or  psycho- 
logical bearing,  did  not  at  present  interest  Miss  Ashmead.     She  was 
thinking,  not  of  philosophy,  but  of  her  friend,   trying  to  hope  that 
Claudia's  delirious  ravings  had  no  more  affinity  with  truth  than  those 
of  the  gentleman  who  saw  the  peacock  at  the  bottom  ofhisbcd,or 
the  lady  who  fancied  herself  the  Erupress  Josephine.     But  it  would 
"Ot  do.     Olivia    could    not   rid    heiself    of    the  sense  that   these 
'^iconscious  wanderings  partook  of  the  nature  of  revelations — that, 
'O  fact,  they  iver;  revelations,  and  terribly  serious  ones.     Certainly, 
^^  any  rate,  one  thing  was  evident     Claudia's  affliction  involved  no 
*oss  of  personal  identity  :  she  was  always  herself,  Claudia,  and  no 
°*>e  else.    Present  time  and  present  surroundings,  to  be  sure,  had 
^ded  from  her  ken,  but  she  seemed  to  be  living  Jn  the  past     Ella 
^Tiorne  was  a  real   person— was  not  Hubert  Stephens  real  also? 
Montreal  was  a  real  place,  and  so  was  St,  Antoine.     Was  that  church 
'^al,  too,  and  the  deed  that  had  been  done  in  it?    Did  there  exist 
*hcTe  the  record  of  a  marriage,  secretly  entered  upon  ;  perhaps  never 
*c It noM-l edged,  now  broken,  violated  ?  How  should  she  put  it  ?  What 
should  she   think  ?     Whatever  she  thought — however  she  put  it — 
'f'ose  strange  hallucinations  and   terrors  turned  Olivia  Ashmead 
^'*^k  to  the  heart.     They  were  not,  she  felt  convinced,  altogether  the 
■^it  of  delusion.    There  lay  behind  them  some  miserable  truth  ; 
***<d  with  that  truth  the  little  woman  whom  they  had  met  in  the  Park 
**   the  day  of  Claudia's  seizure  was  somehow  connected.     To  this 
^*^ficlusion  Olivia  had  arrived  with   intuitive,  but  no  less  positive, 
^  durance. 

Nevertheless,  throughout  all  her  illness,  Claudia  {curiously  enough, 
^^ingthat  tlie  illness  was,  in  a  great  measure,  occasioned  by  the 
*^  «ck  of  that  unexpected  encounter)  never  once  breathed  the  names 
^*ther  of  Madame  Vandeleur  or  the  little  Claude.     Her  poor   un- 
hinged mind  appeared  to  be  filled  and  possessed  by  the  one  cruel 
^*ld  harassing  conception  already  sufficiently  dwelt  upon. 
(TV  be  continued.) 


44-  The  Gentleman* s  Magazine. 


T 


BEASTS  OF  CHASE, 

HE  cr-ise,  the  sport  of  kings^  image  of  war  without  its  guflt," 
.5  Socnenrilles  definition ;  and  he  tells  us  that  ^ derodon 
7cr^  and  srccu  necessity  first  began  the  chase  of  beasts."  Thus 
y.':c5  -  cj-c^Tfi^n.  and  innocent  in  process,  "sport"  should  haw 

Fu:  I^:   ->  hejir  the  other  side,  and  by  preference — as  more 
-,'irv  c:rT^- cr.dli:^  to  Somerrille  in    extremity  of  prejudice— 

I:i  the  gteammg  mom  ; 
I-.v:  ":«-<>  rt  rner  Ktire,  that  all  night  long, 
1  "o:  i  by  ztfCtsKtT  LxJ  nngeil  the  dark, 
A'  •  :><ir  C'Xaci'.His  ranges  shaiiii*d  the  light, 
A-^^xro-L     Net  s.-'  ihe  sceair  triant  man, 
'A  ■»*.'.  '**;h  :2tf  liocghLess  insolence  of  power 
1 :  *  i.'j  •  S:y.&i  :htf  most  iufnriate  wrath 

.:,'  *:r>:  socicer  that  e'er  roam'd  the  waste, 
>  .T  s.cc:  ilcc*;  rcraies  the  crael  chase 
A ::   ■    ^c  beoJEir^  :i  :h<  ^ntle  day. 

.  rt.«:.  y^  nv-ji.:^  thbesv  ocr  wanton  rage, 
y  f  •  :T>^r  v. -til's  T-jc,  and  lawless  want  ; 
*-^.  .:■  .^*  s?.'.  LI  NinreV  S?antT  roITd, 
" .    >'%  l:  i-rc*  "^  i^d  ieii§?it  in  blc<K!, 
■  X  \  M.     .xr  S.CT-.-:  ros**cis  newr  knew. 

\ .-.  s  V  ."  V  s:  ■  .  >:?  -T-jr.ocrived  in  his  aversion  to  the  hard  exercise 


s    * 


>s:v»>x  '  :v^  t'^.'  >u"Ne:'li:>.^s  stmd  ranged  every  conceivable 
s-Vvvv  -**  xV.'*'\:-.>v.  •".  jir.i  ::  is  \-«y  difficult  indeed  to  decide 
H  Vv  V'  .V  \v:^  '*>:.".■:  >  >.cs:i[e  to  sport«  as  sport,  or  b  favour- 
I  \c  V  .V*  ^"-"^  .:.-c:<?  wr.-\^  poems  to  the  glorification  of  the 
x\ixv  *  ^c  v'A  .t:u:  vvrzjL.::  :Vr=:i  o:' hunting  in  particular.  On  the 
,\  V    ^vt  V-  .i  Si.\  fv  JLr.o  r.-x^r;?  c :"  :vets  condemn  it  root  and  branch. 

>\v^  ^*i*  >  \\  ul  :v-n:^  :>.v:  Ji\en>:ni*  of  opinion  is  noteworthy ; 
vs  ^  '  V  >o;"sr  iio  .•.^:."  ri;*:u:;^5  0%-^r  the  death  of  die  stag,  othen 
fr.^  v:  ;Vr  ;v\i^^-'^  -^"•^  ^''*'  "^'^  sobbing  victim:'*  one  party 
<\v\>  o^v^    >^^  v.\  ^ua-.*  s:y-ir^  the  deld  -'bold  heroes*;  the  odier 


!VW/j  of  Chase.  443 

ii"iagni(ies  coursing  the  hare  as  a  delirious  delight ;  Somerville  calls 
^lown  ihe  vengeance  of  Heaven  upon  "the  vile  crew"  who  go  after 

I'uss  with  greyhounds. 

They  are  not  even  agreed  on  facts.    The  quarrel  commences 

the  very  beginning.     For  instance,  Somerville  says  :— 


When  Nimroil  bolil, 
A  mighty  himltr !  first  nindc  war  on  beasts ; 

while  Pope  has  : — 

Proud  Nimrod  first  the  bloody  chase  began ; 
A  m^'hly  hnntet,  and  his  prey  was  man. 


And  they  carry  on  their  differences  up  to  their  own  days.  Thus  one 
po«t  eulogises  the  modern  lady  in  the  hunting-field,  as  if  she  were 
a  Florence  Nightingale  ;  another  cries,  Fie  on  her !  and  Iclls  the 
hussy  to  get  home.  So  that  it  is  not  easy  to  arrive  at  the  just 
"liddie  of  poetical  opinion  upon  the  subject  of  sport. 

Itut  a  very  unmistakable  point  upon  which  our  poets  are  agreed, 
'^^d,  in  my  opinion,  are  every  one  of  them  open   to  unfavourable 
*^"ticism,  is  their  deficiency  of  sympathy.    Of  "sentiment"  they  have 
*  constant  abundance.     I  regret   its  excess  in  Wordsworth,  for  in- 
stance, and  resent  it  in  Cowper ;  Thomson  provokes  me  almost  to 
apoplexy  ;  and  as  for  Eliza  Cook,  I  weep  such  tears  over  her  as,  I 
^^    informed,  I  wept  in  childhood  over  that  unfortunate  ram  which 
■^t>raham  chanced  to  sacrifice  in  the  place  of  his  son.     There  is 
I     *5ch  pathos  in  the  fate  of  the  ram,  which  had  come  over  me  as  a 
'~*'^Jter-on,  and  had  to  lake  the  leading  part  straight  off  without  even 
*"ehearsal.     There  is  much  pathos,  too,  about  Eliza  Cook's  poetry. 
By  "  sympathy  "  I  mean  hterally  what  the  word  implies ;  tliat  is, 
^•low-feeling  ;  and  nowhere  in  poetry  do  I  find  this  beautiful  quality 
T^  Granting — as  compared  with  prose— as  in  the  poets'  treatment  of  the 
^llase.     \Vhen  they  hold  with  the  hare  they  seem  to  have  no  apprc- 
**tion  of  the  courage  and  endurance  of  the  riders,  horses,  or  pack ; 
^Hen  they  hunt  with  the  hounds  they  are  as  pitiless  as  the  dogs 
^^emselves,  rush  frenzied  into  the  death-worry  and  roll  in  the  spilt 
"lood.    This  loss  of  balance  puzzles  me.    If  a  "  poet "  was  of  neces- 
sity a  genius  I  could  understand  it.     But  their  madness  has  not 
*lways  this  justitication  of  alliance. 

Shelley  may  say  anything  he  likes — he  does,  as  a  rule — but  I 
do  not  object  to  his  spotted  tigers  or  his  kingfishers  that  feed  on 
raspberries.  He  may  make  his  tigers  feed  on  kingfishers,  or  his 
kingfishers  on  tigers — it  would  not  matter.  Nor  is  there  anything 
that  might  not  be  forgiven  to  a  Milton,  a  Crashawe,  or  a  Keats. 


ces  at       i 


i 


ri:n{. 


UK  j*"g>i  ^ib  2inr  bovie-knife  who^:^ 
nsr    -zx  sasBssr?  ^ii.i-»—nM>  -^stx  bans  feed  upooc^^ 


tnfsi:?  ^le  mam^iidUdbxX 


TJMU  f  !!■  2c  Fm^iiSliT.    \et 
■  ^v^  -^"ttt^  nar  z.  TnniWHT  Aey  cam  admiieai^  ^ 
£±i  xnr  =5i  =!i=sr=r*  ^can  m:  iiE  liicBSine  or  bis  profit  he  pi^ts 
-n  T>^T?-      3—  rii  =mnTr  aasn.  irm'TiV ii'  od  ^«;   tbeyhavc  mot 


Ti   r-^g-TTT.  :r:ii.     TTn*  ipdiditmr  2t  *  ska^s^e  beasl ;  be  is  tiie 
z    :nt:    niciif^   Twn    vE  sr.   cttIiw  age ;  a. 


Xnrn".  : j=rreE  nt  3o4L  TjiHiks  XI2-— *  gEiad  cieatuie,  who 
•mt  niic  --rr^.^^^  nm  is  rhuaJSL  3tac  cicnnologf ,  as  sometbing 
n£  -nr-T**^  xmii-ssiaE  3iir  i2Dss>  li.  He  laikcs  victofy  by  tbe 
*3nt  a?i»f  ^^^■^^'^  Ttf-  Ti*^^r  ¥XJ-  "tittt  -rrrr?*  >»t!-'V  Bot  in  poetiy  hohc 
^  ae  r-nnrq^  ^ns  ^iSTKiinr  of  ik932BxiL  B  cmied  to  the  boar** 
X  2il  znts  iz  zssL  ic~±i-  "iiiiii>"^  or  liie boar-boands.  Ttic 
;*2ai  r.  laii  a:  x  "ir  iacx  iricx  ipssicnis.  netSL  aad  stress   ^ 


annnctErs.      -  itrr  irt  -  itsrii—    nxr  rre  ri^r  s  oo3y  "  savage. 

T:rt  -Tiii  i:£x::i.      Hi   ^  KiLTij  sz^L  5**:  oc"  foot     But  if  this  ^ 
^^is  :•:'---»;  ..UI--7 -  v:.!::  5;:^"  -v'i  sn*.  ^j-  7i>-s  ask.  of  the  men  1^*^ 
v-fc  Ki^-ii.r^ii  v.^Li  Tizr:  j:  ismr-?     Tie  bsK  and  the  otter  a^^ 
w'-oitrfi-_T  r — -;:■  :  1:  ••bL:  frols  ibsv  atc  compared  to  the  cr^^ 
cc  zz.'^tir.  £izj±  .     T'ji  : :  i.  - -•:.  v'mz  do  hs  wEles  avail  when  outiag^^ 
s:az  1^  cr.  ii?  r3.:iL=.  -JiirKix;^ ::  ^v-r^  ibe  duckling  and  the  chicked*  ^ 
I::  tl-.-i  ^.'..zn  :-  -  Ti«  Civise  *  ^ocaefriile  ranges  over  half  tX^^ 
zr^lan:  k.-i-  ;c-,  zn  is  £ir  is  British  rv^ts  are  concerned  the  bea^*^ 
of  f port  are  T.-ir.MiLy  cnlv  xt- — the  wZdloar.  deer,  fox,  hare,  a 
otter.     'I  he   wildcat,  as  is  proved  bv  old  manorial  charters, 
once  included  in  the  list,  but  it  is  not  a  poet*s  beasL 

Incidentally,  of  course,  eveT\-  v|iiadniped  that  finds  notice  in  vei 
is  referred  to  in  its  relation  to  man — that  of  the  hunted  to  the  hun 
—but,  as  objects  of  the  chase,  the  animals  finally  resolve  themselv 
into  the  mystic  5.     The  chief  of  these  is  the  boar. 

Homer,  describing  the  outnish  of  the  brothers  Ajax,  employs   *^ 
as  a  simile. 

I'orOi  from  their  portals  rushed  th'intrepid  pair. 
Opposed  their  breasts  and  stood  themselves  the  war. 
So  two  wild  hoars  spring  furious  from  their  den, 
KtJU'icd  with  the  cries  of  dogs  and  voice  of  men. 


B easts  of  Chase,  445 

On  every  side  the  crackling  trees  they  tear, 
And  root  the  shrubs,  and  lay  the  forest  bare  ; 
They  gnash  their  tusks,  with  fire  their  eyeballs  roll, 
Till  some  wide  wound  lets  out  their  mighty  soul. 

Ovid,  in  his  description  of  the  beast,  has  the  following  lines  \— 

Sanguine  et  igne  niicant  oculi,  riget  hom'da  cervix, 
£t  setrc,  densis  similes  hastilibus  horrent, 
Stantque  velut  vallum,  velut  alta  hastilia  setie. 
Fervida  cum  rauco  latos  stridore  per  armos 
Spuma  fluit. 

In  these  two  passages  are  contained  the  sum  total  of  the  English 
poets'  wild  boar :  Homer's  simile  and  Ovid's  description  have 
sufficed. 

This  animal,  by  the  way,  affords  us  a  standard  by  which  to 
measure  our  own  manhood  with  that  of  the  "  heroic,"  chivalrous, 
and  historical  days.  "The  destruction  of  a  wild  boar,"  we  read, 
"  ranked  in  the  middle  ages  among  the  deeds  of  chivalry,  and  won 
for  a  warrior  almost  as  much  renown  as  the  slaying  of  an  enemy  in 
open  lists."  Think  of  this,  you  jolly  hog-hunters  of  India  I  Regret, 
when  you  next  ride  to  pig,  with  a  single  spear  in  your  hand,  that 
you  did  not  live  in  the  past,  when  if  you  had  gone  after  the  same 
beast  in  armour,  javelinned,  and  sworded,  you  might  have  been  a 
hero.  Look  at  your  trophies  of  tushes  and  lament.  Each  pair  of 
those  in  the  days  of  the  Earl  Guy  might  have  made  you  a  national 
hero  for  life  and  perhaps  even  a  Saint  of  Christendom  thereafter  ! 

In  Windsor  Forest  the  redoubtable  Earl  "  did  all  to— kill "  a 
**  grisly  bore,"  and  he  lives  for  ever  a  mirror  of  heroism. 

As  also  how  hce  slue 
That  cruell  lx)are,  whose  tusks  turned  up  whole  fields  of  graine 
(And  wrooting,  raised  hills  upon  the  Icvell  plaine, 
Dig'd  caverns  in  the  earth,  so  darke  and  wondrous  deepc 
As  that  into  whose  mouth  the  desperate  Roman  leepe) ; 
And,  cutting  off  his  head,  a  trophy  thence  to  bcare.  {^Drayton. ) 

Are  the  Gordons  ever  likely  to  forget  their  illustrious  clansman 
who  slew  "  the  boar  of  Huntley  "  ?  or  the  Boswells  how  their  ances- 
tor  avenged  the  death  of  Farquhar  II.,  King  o'  Scots  ? 

When  beyond  he  lyeth  languishing. 
Deadly  engorcd  of  a  great  wild  bore. 

In  Chetwode  once  abode  a  boar,  and  the  terror  of  it  was  so 
great  that  the  country  people  could  not  pass  that  way  to  Rook  wood  ; 
and  even  travellers  of  quality  "passed  by  on  the  other  side."    Then 


^  -»  J 


Tkd  Gentlimams  Jfa^azine. 


-Li  \-t  L::i  if  C-.it»ode,  blinking  is  great  shame  thai  be 
.t  -.'•— 5  .>.Li:ci  fros  societr  by  an  '' nrchin*SDouted  boar,' 
:"-  : :  tliy  .u  is  if  the  l:«L5t  were  a  Guillaume  le  Sanglia 
1  ^.ry  ::"-.:'ir:r^di  of  castle  tr-mj^ets. 


r=i_    iT  >-.r=-  rji>i  b:;a:( 


Z9  be  nacwd  him  a]*xigy 


Ti-.r  ■*-  ;t  r.i.:^:  fasr  i^crs  in  a  5»>2g  scnimer  day — 

V.  .1.1  »il  :-y  iDca,  g«>jd  hsnrcr ; 
7"!    -If  *-^  1  :•  or  ik:a  vo^d  hire  ^dc  Llm  awiy 

:•■   -    .-*_- Ryzlii.  •ie}:*^*!  i=n:er. 


'.'■',:  --*..-  I-.yiLLi  *-:;  iifm  bii  -roa,i-sm:ri  uiih  might  — 

*•■  -I     "■;'.  •'•;  ■-  rru  j::od  bc=:er: 
.*.-  .  r :  ■i.'.T  — :  -v*  S:>ar'$  hea-i  off  -riiie- 

A-::!-tT  iUjsaation  of  the  prodigious  importance  attached  to 
>*._..  -  :ea:  is  iiiordtd  by  the  legend  of  Boarsull,  theseat  ofthe 
A-:rey5.  *•  It  is  situated  within  the  limits  of  the  ancient  forest  of 
Fc-TXHi.  whivh  Wis  very  extensive  and  thickly  wooded.  This 
f.  re^-^  i-  the  neighbourhood  of  Brill,  where  Edward  the  Cot&ssx 
hid  a  :\iLace.  was  ir.fested  with  a  ferocious  wild  boar,  which  had  not 
ozLy  become  a  terror  to  the  rustics,  but  a  great  annoyance  to  the 
ro>iI  huTiUng  exoediuons-  At  length  one  Nigel,  a  huntsman,  dug  a 
pit  in  ji  ceiuin  spot  which  he  had  obser^'ed  the  boar  to  frequent, and, 
rlacir..:  a  sow  in  the  pit,  covered  it  with  brushwood.  The  boar 
c2.-::e  ai:er  -J-.e  sow.  and,  foiling  into  the  pit,  was  easily  killed  by  Nigel, 
who  c^rrei  ::s  he^d  on  his  sword  to  the  king,  who  was  then  residing 
at  Erir..'     For  this  the  king  knighted  him  "  and  amply  rewarded 

x.:^,  -  - 

a  A*  *  >«   • 

A'.:  this  -:oes  to  prove  the  manly  courage  of  the  men  who  killed 
l\."ur>  :  ye:  the  Ix^ars  courage  is  all  bloodthirsty  ferocity.     Adonis 

•  \V::hin  i  r.."'.c  cf  Chctw.^'.c  Manor  House  there  existed  a  large  mound,  snr- 
T.  ur.-U':  ly  -  d.::h.  nn  •  ^-eirir.^  :h-  name  of  "  the  Boar's  Pond."  It  had  long 
be<r.  overj^T'VT.  ^xi:h  j^t-c  anil  *^rii<hwood,  when,  about  the  year  iSio,  the 
ter.ar.:  ::  w>:.'>>j  farm  it  bcIon^eJ.  visliin^  to  bring  it  into  cultivation,  began  to  fill 
up  the  I::::''.  *:  y  levelling  the  mound.  Having  lowered  the  latter  about  four  feet 
he  CJ^v.L  ».  n  :hc  fr.o'.c:-  n  of  an  enormous  boar  lying  flat  on  its  side  and  at  full 
I.-ji-.V..  Tr  -ully  ::ii>  was  the  very  spot  where  it  had  been  killed,  the  earth 
a:,  u;;.-.  :uv::i-  Inxn  heaped  over  it  so  as  to  form  ihc  ditch  and  mound.  The  space 
to::v.0T'y  thus  Lvcupicvl  can  still  ^»e  traced.  It  extends  about  thirty  feet  in  length 
and  eighteen  in  width,  and  the  field  containing  it  is  yet  called  *'the  Boar's  Head 
leiu. 


Beasts  of  Chase.  447 

will  not  stay  with  his  celestial  charmer ;   his  thoughts  are  all  given 
to  the  boar-hunt  he  has  on  hand. 

But  for  she  saw  him  bent  to  cruell  play, 

To  hunt  the  salvage  beast  in  forest  wyde. 

Dreadful!  of  danger  that  mote  him  betyde, 

She  ofl  and  oft  advized  to  refraine 

From  chase  of  greater  beastes,  whose  brutish  pryde 

Mote  breede  him  scath  unwares. 

So,  too,  the  lovely  Thyamis,  wedded  to  a  "  loose,  unruly  swain," 

Who  had  more  joy  to  range  the  forest  wyde, 
And  chase  the  salvage  boar  with  busie  payne, 
Than  serve  his  lady's  love  ; 

goes  out  loveless  into  the  wilderness. 

Boar-hunting  had  therefore — at  least  so  it  would  appear—  momen- 
tous consequences  in  the  days  of  chivalry ;  nowadays  it  is  a  mere 
pastime  with  Englishmen  ;  they  call  it  "  sticking  pigs."  None  of 
them  expects  knighthood  for  the  performance,  nor  does  the  pig- 
sticker expect  his  wife  to  go  forth  mad  during  his  absence.  Of 
course  it  may  be  said  that  boars  are  not  what  they  were  "  in  the 
good  old  days,"  and  there  the  poets  have  the  best  of  it — for  their 
boars  are  perfect  hurricanes.  But  I  protest  against  their  handling 
of  them.  The  valour  of  the  gallant  brute  was  worth  a  passing 
compliment 

With  the  poets  the  deer  is  a  universal  favourite.  "  The  dew- 
dawed  stag  "  (Keats),  "a  stag  often,  bearing  his  branches  sturdily  " 
(Scott),  always  makes  a  stanzo  go  statelily.  Even  Ossian's  tiresome 
**  dun  sons  of  the  bounding  hind,  the  dark-brown  deer  of  Cromla," 
relieve  the  dreary  monotony  of  the  Phairson's  native  heath.  Every 
poet  likes  to  talk  about  them. 

The  wild  and  frightful  herds 
That,  hearing  no  noise  but  that  of  chattering  birds, 
Feed  fairly  on  the  lawns :  both  sorts  of  season'd  deer. 
Here  walk  the  stately  Red,  the  freckled  Fallow  there 
The  Bucks  and  lusty  Stags  amongst  the  Rascals  strewed. 
As  sometime  gallant  spirits  among  the  multitude. 

And  they  all  agree  in  paying  tribute  to  its  courage  :  "  When  at  bay 
a  desperate  foe." 

They  exult  in  its  escape.    Thus  even  Somerville  : — 

Heav'n  taught,  the  roebuck  swift 
Loiters  at  case  before  the  driving  pack, 
And  mocks  their  vain  pursuit.     Nor  far  he  flies, 
But  checks  his  ardour,  till  the  streaming  scent 
That  freshens  on  the  blade  provokes  their  rage. 


Tkt  GtulUmuMS  Afqgasime, 


x^± 


iMto 
fink :  tbcy  puil»  they  Umm, 
o^cr  the  \u^  hiUs 
the  MiOtei'd  crowd ; 


2nxxf:::rs  £^£9^ 


vfaen  the  ''andered  monarch  of  ^ 

Sl  Hubert's  breed,''  and,  duitfV.j 

nodky"  is  soon  '*  lost  to  bonB' 

place  of  refbge 


in  Tmin 
pass  amftin. 


\VS;a  k  ines  :be  pMts  veqp  with  it.     If  it  is  a  fawn  no  LedM 
»ic&  r»r5  c«<r  a  spaziow.    Read,  fior  instance,  Marvel's  daffl^ 
s^^.*^     I^  i:&  a  Tcrr  tbai  be»  so  tnie,  as  a  role,  to  nature,  shoaldcff 
iwica  Skurr  ctSgr  roecs^  in  making  finms  **  white." 

I  ^-nf  1  ^ari<c  cf  oxt  own, 

.\:i^l  iU  :be  scrji^-urae  of  the  year 

',  cc*>  V^x-i  :o  be  there. 

A-scc^  lie  Ved  ct  UUies  I 

:U^^  s:ci;^  ::  oc^  where  it  should  Ijpe, 

V;::  c^.niji  sec.  ilII  itself  should  rise, 

:  rd  ;:*  jJiiocgb  before  mine  eyes ; 

V,s  -JL  :ie  £ii\«&  lil'ies'  shade 

V,  *  .*v<  i  >w=ci  of  liUies  laid. 

V  -vc  :"ie  r^ses  it  vodd  feed 

'^  u::!  .:s  I:\>s  <*en  seeated  to  bleed, 

.V.:<.'  :>.<-  ::'  2»  "twocld  boldly  trip 

.^:ai  yc.z:  ;hcs<  roses  on  mr  lip. 

IV:::  th;?  wanton  troopers  riding  by  shot  the  fawn,  and  it  died. 

I'o^^ecile  men !  tber  cannot  thrive 
Wbo  kill'd  ihee.    Thou  ne'er  didst  alive 
Them  asy  harm :  aUs !  n^^r  could 
Thy  dc^iih  )et  do  them  any  good. 

Anvl  r.v:h*r^  may  m-e  use  in  vain  ; 
KvcQ  bejLi>:>  most  be  ^ith  justice  slain  ; 
Fl>c  r.'.v'n  are  nude  ;hc:r  deoJands. 

Nor,  when  full  grown  and  antlered,  does  sympathy  cease.   '^^ 
in  Phineas  Fletchers  poem  :— 

Look  as  a  stagge,  pierced  with  a  fatal  blow. 
As  by  a  wood  he  walks  seciircly  feeding — 


Beasts  of  Chase,  449 

In  coverts  thick  conceals  his  deadly  blow, 

And  feeling  death  swim  in  his  endless  bleeding, 

His  heavy  head  his  fainting  strength  exceeding — 

Bids  woods  adieu,  so  sinks  into  his  grave ; 

Green  brakes  and  primrose  sweet  his  seemly  herse  embrave. 

In  the  actual  chase  itself  the  poets*  sympathies  are  never  far 
behind  the  deer.  Drayton  is  a  poet  who  is  seldom  read,  but  as  he 
lived  in  the  days  when  stags  were  running  wild  in  England  he  is  well 
worth  the  hearing — quite  apart  from  the  rare  robustness  of  his  verse: — 

The  best  of  chase,  the  tall  and  lusty  Hed, 
The  stag  for  goodly  shape  and  statelinesse  of  head, 
Is  fitt'st  to  hunt  at  force. 

Such  is  the  beast  he  starts  with.  He  shows  us  the  huntsman  in 
"  the  thicke,"  tracking  it  by  its  slot  or  by  his  wood-craft,  and  then  on 
a  sudden  the  stag,  startled  by  the  "bellowing  hounds,"  rushes  out : — 

He  through  the  brakes  doth  drive, 
As  though  up  by  the  roots  the  bushes  he  would  rive. 

The  hounds  fall  to,  the  horns  are  blown,  and  the  quarry's  afoot: — 

The  lustie  stag  his  high  palmed  head  upbears. 
His  body  shewing  state,  with  unbent  knees  upright, 
Expressing  (from  all  beasts)  his  courage  in  his  flight. 

But  the  pack  come  up  to  him,  and  then  he  exerts  his  utmost 
speed.  The  baying  of  the  hounds  dies  away,  and  the  stag,  to  baffle 
further  pursuit,  "doth  beat  the  brooks  and  ponds,"  and  "makes 
among  the  herds  and  flocks  of  shag-woolled  sheep."  But  wherever 
he  goes  he  finds  himself  shunned  or  opposed.  In  the  fields  the 
ploughman  goes  after  him  with  his  goad,  "  while  his  team  he  letteth 
stand."  In  the  pasture  the  shepherd  chases  him,  "  and  to  his  dog 
doth  halow."  And  all  this  time  the  hounds  come  creeping  up 
again,  while  the  stag  has  wearied  itself  in  futile  stratagem. 
"  Through  toyle  bereaved  of  strength,  His  long  and  sinewy  legs  are 
fayling  him  at  length."  A  village  comes  in  his  way,  and  he  flies  for 
safety  to  the  abodes  of  men  ;  but  the  people  turn  out  and  drive  him 
forth.  There  are  the  hounds,  full  in  sight ;  so  there  is  nothing  for  it 
i)ut  to  stand  at  bay.  "  Some  bank  or  quick-set  finds,  to  which  his 
haunch  opposed,  he  turns  upon  his  foes,"  and  as  the  "churlish- 
throated  "  hounds  attack  him  "  dealeth  deadly  blows  with  his  sharp- 
pointed  head."  Then  the  huntsmen  come  up,  and  oi>e  of  them  kills 
^he  stag.    And  so 

VOL.  CCLVIII.      NO.   1853.  \\ 


.  1...  «•* 


Oppresl  by  force. 
He  who  Ihc  mourner  is  lo  his  own  dying  cois; 
Upon  !he  (ulhless  eaith  his  precious  leir  lets  Wl. 
Thomson's  sententious  caricature  of  this  passage  in  his  "  Auiu-^ 
is  well  wonh  noting,  but  as  the  poet  only  knew  of  fallow  de^^ 
makes  the  stag  "  spotted  "  in  the  face  and  "  chequered  "  in  the  ** 
Bui  in  all  matters  of  fact  his  animal  is  simply  Somerville's,     It  *'^ 
off  with  all  its  faith  in  its  own  speed,  "  bursts  through  the  lhid^^^ 
and  goes  away.     But 

Slow  of  sure,  adhesive  lo  ihc  track, 
Hoi-steaming  up  behind  him  cone  again 
The  inhumui  rout. 
And  then  "  oft  to  full-descending  flood  he  turns,"  and  " 
herd."   But  his  "  once  so  vivid  nerves"  begin  to  fail,  j 
at  bay,"  "  putting  his  last  weak  refuge  in  despair." 

The  big  round  teats  run  ilgwn  his  dappled  face  j 
He  groans  in  anguish  while  the  growllDg  pack, 
Blood'happf,  bang  al  his  fair  jutting  cheek 
And  mark  his  beauteous  checkered  sides  wilti  gore. 
In  metaphor  also  the  deer  symbol  is  often  nsed  as  of  a  creature  I — ^ 
may  lay  claim  to  superior  intelligence  and  special  protectic^ 
in  Quarles ; — 

Great  God  of  heuts,  the  world's  sols  sov'raign  Kangcr, 
Preferve  Thy  deer,  and  lei  my  soul  be  blest 
In  Thy  safe  fortpst  when  I  seek  for  rest : 
Then  let  the  hell-hounds  roar,  I  fear  no  ill. 
Rouse  me  they  may,  but  lu.ve  no  pow'r  lo  kill. 

The  same  measure  of  compassion  is  not  extended  to  the 
is  looked  upon  as  the  most  melancholy,  limping,  trembling  crcitrzfp' 
imaginable — intended,  apparently,  by  Nature  (or  the  exercise  a/ 
beagles,  and  given  an  extraordinary  degree  of  craft  in  order  to  amu« 
greyhounds.  Some  poets  strangely  pity  it,  and,  considering  il  aires// 
sufficiently  afHicled  by  natural  timidity  and  general  helplessness,  ihini 
hunting  it  is  a  shame.  Their  argument  is  a  singular  one,  "  See  hw 
frightened  the  poor  thing  looks,  don't  frighten  it,"  and  "See  how&fl 
the  unhappy  wretch  runs  away,  don't  run  after  it"  "Poor  is  il* 
triumph  o'er  the  timid  hare,"  "  o'er  a  weak,  harmless,  flying  crealurc' 
—such  is  the  view  taken  of  the  sport  by  the  minority,  their  expres- 
sions of  regret  being  often  marked  by  true  pathos,  as  thus,  in  lln 
"  Deserted  Village  "; — 

And,  as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 

Panls  lo  Ihe  place  from  whence  at  firs!  sli    " 

I  slill  had  hopes,  my  long 

Here  to  return,  and  die  al  home 


creature  I — ^ 
:tiTO.^^W 

hdrnVVj 


Beasts  of  Chase,  451 

-And  what  can  be  finer  than  the  distracted  Paphian's  description  of 
the  hunted  hare  ? — 

His  grief  may  be  comparM  well 
To  one  sore-sick,  that  hears  the  passing  bell. 
Then  shall  thou  see  the  dew-bedabbled  wretch 
Turn  and  return,  indenting  with  the  way; 
Each  envious  briar  his  weary  legs  doth  scratch, 
Each  shadow  makes  him  stop,  each  murmur  stay: 
For  misery  is  trodden  on  by  many, 
And  being  low,  never  relieved  by  any. 

The  rest,  strangely  enough  for  poets  perhaps,  seem  to  accept  the 
fitness  of  the  hare  to  be  hunted  as  a  matter  of  course,  its  suitableness 
for  "  the  chase  "  a  provision  of  nature.  "  If  thou  needs  tuUl  hunt," 
says  Venus,  "  be  ruled  by  me,  uncouple  at  the  timorous,  flying  hare." 
Pope,  Gay,  Rowe,  Mallet,  Drayton,  and  Somerville  are  instances 
in  point    Thus  the  author  of  "  Polyolbion  " : — 

The  man  whose  vacant  mind  prepares  him  for  the  sport 
The  Finder  sendcth  forth  to  seek  out  nimble  Wat 
Which  crosseth  in  the  field  each  furlong,  every  flat, 
Till  he  this  pretty  beast  upon  the  Forme  hath  found. 
Then,  viewing  for  the  course  which  is  the  fairest  ground, 
The  greyhounds  forth  are  brought,  for  coursing  then  in  case. 
And  choicely  in  the  slip,  one  leading  forth  a  brace, 
The  finder  puts  her  up  and  gives  her  courser's  law ; 
Then  whilst  the  eager  dogs  upon  the  start  do  draw 
She  riseth  from  her  seat,  as  though  on  earth  she  flew. 
Forced  by  some  yelping  curre  to  give  the  greyhounds  view, 
Which  are  at  length  let  slip,  when  leaping  out  they  goe. 
As  in  respect  of  them  the  swiftest  wind  were  slow, 
When  each  man  runs  his  horse,  with  fixed  eyes,  and  notes 
Which  dog  first  tumes  the  hare,  which  first  the  other  coats. 
Till  oft  for  want  of  breath  to  fall  to  ground  they  make  her. 
The  greyhounds  both  so  spent  that  they  want  breath  to  take  her. 

Gay  was  not  much  of  a  sportsman,  as  he  himself  confesses,  for,  finding 
himself  committed  to  the  subject  of  rural  sports,  he  feels  that  he 
cannot  do  less  than,  at  any  rate,  refer,  in  passing,  to  hunting  as  one 
of  them  ;  but  he  pulls  himself  up  with  pleasing  frankness  and  a  '<  what 
on  earth  do  I  know  about  it "  sort  of  apology. 

The  theme  demands  a  more  experienced  lay. 
Ye  mighty  hunters !  spare  this  weak  essay. 

Fishing  was  his  weakness,  with  a  fly  by  preference ;  but  still  he 
)>reaks  out  into  ^n  artless  linnet-chirrup  about  ''  the  chase,  a'pleasing 


■^wl*   S 


...<.       :- :    :  •' -:-r<  1-r  rim^cs  i:  b:irs-h::=riag,  and  thus  abruptly 

".'.      -i:.  :.   -L.-:.  =:::  :.li:ij  ir-:  bares  f:r  breaih, 

^: ::  ir  1 :  ^.  i :  v  ;t  ;r.  •/'  ^^.jLl^r  -  the  poet  of  the  chase,"  and 
.:-  re-::*:'!.  :•':■*  ;:'  :.i  T«:e!r.  •iri..ih  is  niinly  concerned  with  hare- 

*  "  •  •  ■ 

. .^  ■■^■■■■--  _»:  .•s^'<^  -  '"^  >..^ — ■>'_.  .cvOQuiL^  nonce 

..zluz-.-j:^  ▼•-ii  >:~e  cicdnl  rerijjks  about  **  that  insliDct 
V  :  .:.  izir-.-^.  riiits  i^*  rrin:  ::L:e,  -"hich  mimics  reason's  lore, 
1.-1  :r:  z-i:ii.::2ij. '  I't  Tosses  cc  ::  the  srecial  instinct  ^  that  directs 
1  t  :-  -i  --iTz  : :  . Ji:.:<c  *-'ir  scf:  i::.:ce  ~  :i2d  *"  oft  quit  her  scat, kst 
r.-c  :-r-:-i  i-i  fiiii.iniri  itr  "rriunL"  He  then  describes  Ac 
:--ir^^  x:.:.:  5j:r  zLikis.  iccjri.zz::  ±e  season,  *'as  fancy  prompls 
-.r  ::  li  T.'i-i  .-  .::-?.  ir.t  rr-r^els  ±e  huntsman  to  make  a  note 
:.'  i.:iz:  1.5  :  v  ^rv.fs:  '-^  L::':i:^  -r^  're  wasted  in  looking  for  hazes 
.-  :  -L-i-  :*;>-  --.=  i::  Utelv  :o  ':e,  ani  -his  impatient  hounds,  with 
-  ^: '  :•:-:?::. z:   -Ki^i,    rirh   sjr.r^.nz   larx,   babbling   pursae,  iu 

>:  s-.T'.-^r  r^  .:  ::  :e  i.:.--.  i-i  'SLt  crops  aU  gathered  off  Ac 


-  -    -  -  ■   -^  "-  -iT-j— J  ?'-2;.^  rsi^  :2iz^zieu  : 
?■  .  a.::  fc  ?  :s— 5  :  ir£.  •.  z:  s«-crs:  csrse 
-j^  vr.l>  .-  -.zt  £ir=:-;r  >  rrsus:.  ^.iiich  his  pale  lips, 
7 r  r  -: : .  z^    r :  -  :i^" .  \  y  ?-_?  H-r je  lia-il ;rd  awed : 
1  _:  ::ir.i-M5  r.  ▼  hi  li^eli  everr  fence. 

•  r.i—:.:  '*.-/i  \:t  z:    \.t.-  :i:inier  of  the  field. 

T>..^  rack  i^  thrcTTT.  c5:  after  a  while  the  old  hound,  with  his 
*-.iu:her.:::  v:::e,  iv:^?  the  recent  trail,"  and  away  they  ga  But  a 
double  iiives  then^i  2  check,  and  then  they  steady  down,  working  the 
fallow  iu  a  busir.ess-like  way,  anc  all  of  a  sudden  the  huntsman  himself 
comes  upon  puss  in  her  f  jm^,  and  away  she  bolts.  The  hounds  are 
laivl  on,  and  "'^is  winds  let  loose,  from  the  dark  caverns  of  the  blus- 
tcrinij  cod,  thev  burst  awav." 

No  A-,  my  brave  youths ! 
S:r:rrc  :  for  the  chose,  give  all  your  souls  to  joy ; 

for  the  hare  *'oer  plains  remote  now  stretches  far  away."  The 
country  side  is  up  at  the  sound  of  the  "  clanging  horns  " ;  the  school- 
boy,  dreading  no  more  the  "afflictive  birch," runs  out  ofschooltosee 
the  hunt  go  by  ;  the  travellers  on  the  roads  climb  up  to  the  highest 


Beasts  of  Chase.  453 

spots  ;  the  shepherd  and  ploughman  leave  their  work  ;  the  peasants 
"  desert  the  unpeopled  village." 

And  wild  crowds 
Spread  o'er  the  plains,  by  the  sweet  frenzy  seized. 

The  hare  doubles  again,  gets  behind  the  pack,  and  "seems  to 
pursue  the  foe  she  flies." 

Let  cavillers  deny 
That  brutes  have  reason  :     Sure  'tis  something  more. 
Tis  Heaven  directs,  and  stratagems  inspires. 
Beyond  the  short  extent  of  human  thought. 

But  the  hounds  find  her  out,  and  the  pack  sees  her  sitting  on  an 
eminence,  "  listening  with  one  ear  erect,"  and  wondering  what  to  do 
next,  "ix)ndering  and  doubtful  what  new  course  to  take."  At  length 
she  decides  to  trust  to  her  heels  again,  and  is  off. 

Once  more,  ye  jovial  train,  your  courage  tr)-. 

She  has  gone  uphill,  which  takes  it  out  of  the  hounds,  and  down 

the  steep  other  side,  which  takes  it  out  of  the  riders  ;  but  "  smoking 

along  the  vale,"  the  hunt  has  the  hare  full  in  view.     A  flock  of  sheep 

baulks  the  hounds  for  a  while,  but  they  take  up  the  "  steaming  scent " 

again,  and  *•  the  rustling  stubbles  bend  beneath  the  driving  storm  "  of 

harriers. 

Now  the  poor  chase 
Begins  to  flag,  to  her  last  shifts  reduc*d. 
From  brake  to  brake  she  flies,  and  visits  all 
Her  well  known  haunts,  where  once  she  rang'd  secure, 
With  love  and  plenty  bless'd.     See !  there  she  goes ; 
She  reels  along,  and  by  her  gait  betrays 
Her  inward  weakness.     See  how  black  she  looks. 
The  sweat  that  clogs  the  obstructed  pores  scarce  leaves 
A  languid  scent. 

And  now  in  open  view 
See,  see !  she  flies ;  each  eager  hound  exerts 
His  utmost  speed,  and  stretches  ev*ry  nerve. 
How  quick  she  turns,  their  gaping  jaws  eludes, 
And  yet  a  moment  lives,  till  round  enclosed 
By  all  the  greedy  pack,  with  infant  screams 
She  yields  her  breath,  and  there,  reluctant,  dies. 

After  this,  of  course,  there  is  nothing  to  come  but  exultations, 
and  for  the  hounds  a  taste  of  blood. 

The  huntsman  now  a  deep  incision  makes. 

Shakes  out  with  hands  impure,  and  dashes  down. 

Her  reeking  entrails  and  yet  quivering  heart. 

These  claim  the  pack,  the  bloody  perquisite 

Of  all  their  toils.     Stretched  on  the  ground  she  lies 

A  mangled  corse ;  in  her  dim-glaring  eyes 

Cold  Death  exults  and  stiffens  every  limb. 


.■  Jlfj^jiz:;:^, 


V    :  T   ..     .-   L*     :-:  1"  :=:t  i-.r  rirr- r^:v.e  suggests !    Tnc 

.. :  :■.-..:     1.:    -..-    :'  r_r_-.r.j  dz^vz  2  creature  of  such 

"      -      --    —    ■-       -■-■-    .:"  'l-"-er.:.  if  i:  were  nirned  into 

■-■-■:.  "    ■     ":  1    "";    r.zr.ts    ::   vulj/lne   [cndy  and 

->.  -■-         -r     -■-  --'--  -=■ -':-!-•-  i-ive  crvoted  themselves  to 

"   "-    i    -  ■■-=   ::.l-"i".   ::   jeems  to  be  far  from 

:     --      -  ..:•.-.-.-  ":     -..  77. i^--  i>.o^ether  despicable. 

'-        ■    ^"  .    ;       :-     :\i:  :. :  *_::..-:<.«  ::  l.:;lc   of  ihe  fox  is 

:  .       ■'   -  -      :  ■-■  1    1.  : :  :*  -  1.7^::  :>.:.:'•  :he  lion's  skin  is 

'-"'■-  ■  -      —^  :.:::.•-.:-    ::"  Lysaader's  apothegm, 

.'    -  -       ■      •■   ■   -   -■  "   :  ^  -~  .-.  :iii  :r.  iha:  of  the  fox."' 

:'.:..      •.;■.-"        i-  : -:   ir.e  :l5T'Lc: — the  dispeople!  of 

:;     ■   _   -      -•-      ^-  ;_-  -■     t_r.?.  :'.-.::-:':  re  ::  should  le  vindictively 

'.-'.::■      .  ■    .  1     -     -r  :c.-.?: :  ::  lives  a  secluded  life. 

-*:     .  ._-  '      .    --.iir  .:  7..t7.  .  :>.e '-.ka:,  ihtrefore.  is  the 

-■>•-  •-       :.:—".    ~-.f:.s   -hizh    E-ro:>ein    fabulists  have 

4k 

.■."■--  "•.?:ir::  :":\  :ai:s  :he  rhce  of  its  forci;:n 
-■    "*.?:'       -    .  -.  ":  1?  :i.:  *. ^r.- r.'.^ch  :n  common  in  habits 

:"-  ■  ,"  :  -  :  1  :'.  .  .f  :>.r  suv^r!.:  in  phviical  endurance, 
r  . . .  .  -  .  .■  -  -'  r--  I  ■.--■.:>'  ~:y  orinion  on  the  last  point 
..-•..::    .  .  .       .:■.::■-  L-::L.-.:e  ■::"  :-:er:cr  rluck  in  the  iackal 

7  ■     . :  -.  .  L  :  ::  L-r.  twri  r..i.;s.:rj  cf  that  astute  discretion 

T."    :       :.'  .  .. ..:  :    *    ~  r:  l   :!::  f:::—.:?:  f.^rure  in  myth  and  folklore. 
I "   ■■ .    .    :.    :  :    .   :  ;  :>  :rj.r.>".-:.:r.f  cf  G;:bernatis  we  see  in  the 
:":\     .-'    .   :   .    v..         :.'.:.-:.'.    ".  L'.v.eer.  ca\!i^;hi  and  darkness  that 
--.:.:. ^      -     .   :  ^"  :  ^-.v  '..'.:.\   '^\x:'<  rnz'M  points:   it   is  the 

^-:-  „>.  ■...:  -.•.-.  -.■:•:  ".  :"  :r.:?  !".i\.ver.>  ukinL:  an  animal  form.  I'lit 
■  ^^:  .■>  :  ..:l  ..:.  :  ■■  .  "  ;._:::.■.>.'  :h-j  n:orr.:nj  ar.d  the  evening,  so  the 
:':  \  .: :  < ..".  ':.:. f  .*  ... : /  :  .v l  :: :y- f :  -^r  hours  two  chances  at  the  sun- 
«.\:.'n.  ".  .  ;.■.  .*:'  -.^ '...:.:  i: '  „r.^:-./.!y  fails  :o  score,  missing  the  solar  fowl 
V. .:"■.  :.7.  i::^ .;'::;'-. j  .-.jjuravTv  :!.::  ci^ht  bv  this  time  to  have  had  a 

Ir.  :V.:  '.cs  the  c!:.irac:er  of  the  fox  is  also  dual.  It  is  generally 
:'.:e  dece:\  or.  l  :::  also  on  occasions  the  dupe.  Many  animals  on 
occasion  fall  a  victim  to  it — in  the  single  romance  of  Reincke  Fuchs 
it  outwits  and  infamoii>ly  rains  the  king-lion  and  pretty  nearly  all 


Beasts  of  Chase.  455 

his  courtier-quadrupeds — but  every  now  and  again  the  same  animals 
flout  it,  make  fun  of  it,  play  tricks  on  it.  Even  cocks  and  kids  have 
a  joke  occasionally  at  its  expense,  which  is  very  true  to  nature,  for 
we  often  see  the  professional  sharper,  the  habitual  traitor,  exposed  and 
put  to  shame  by  simple  honesty  or  innocent  mother  wit.  Betty  with 
her  mop  routs  the  fencing-master.  But,  above  all,  the  fox  is  always 
beaten  when  he  tries  to  pass  off  his  dishonesties  upon  other  foxes ; 
the  rogues  know  each  other  too  well  to  try  to  guess  where  the  pea 
is.  So  when  the  fox  falls  by  accident  into  a  dyer's  vat,  and  comes 
out  a  fine  blue  all  over,  he  goes  back  to  his  kindred  and  tells  them  that 
he  is  a  peacock  of  the  sky.  But  they  recognise  his  voice  and  worry 
him  till  they  pull  all  his  blue  fur  ofif,  and  he  dies.  Stories  of  the  same 
purport  are  abundant  and  familiar  to  all. 

Yet  there  are  plenty  of  occasions  in  which  the  fox  behaves  very 
honourably  to  its  friends,  and  appears  in  the  light  of  a  benefactor, 
notably,  in  those  tales  where  reynard  plays  the  part  of  Puss-in-boots, 
such  as  Cosmo  the  Quickly  Enriched,  and  others.  Moreover,  the 
cock  is  sometimes  found  on  the  most  friendly  relations  with  the  fox, 
who  helps  it  against  their  common  enemy,  the  wolf. 

It  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  many  poets  condemn  fox-hunting, 
**  which  rural  gentlemen  call  sport  divine,"  and  perhaps  superfluous 
to  add  that  their  reasons  hardly  justify  their  condemnation.  To 
them  the  sportsman  appears  something  rather  less  than  human. 

To  the  field  he  flies, 
Leaps  every  fence  but  one,  then  falls  and  dies 
Like  a  slain  deer;  the  tumbril  brings  him  home, 
Unmissed  but  by  his  dogs  and  by  his  groom. 

Especially  does  this  class  of  poet  detest  to  see  women  in  the  field. 

Far  be  the  spirit  of  the  chase  from  them ! 

Uncomely  courage,  unbeseeming  skill, 

To  spring  the  fence,  to  rein  the  prancing  steed. 

They  hope  "  such  horrid  joy "  will  never  "  stain  the  bosom  of  the 
British  fair." 

Nor  when  they  come  to  discriminate  between  one  kind  of  sport 
and  another  is  their  argument  such  as  to  increase  respect  for  their 
opinioa  When  Venus  implores  her  darling  not  to  hunt  fierce  beasts, 
but,  if  he  must  hunt,  to  go  after  the  "timid  hare,"  there  is  womanly 
reason  enough  in  what  she  says.  But  when  Thomson  begs  "ye 
Britons"  not  to  hunt  the  poor  "dappled"  stag  with  the  "chequered" 
sides,  nor  the  "  flying  hare,"  but,  if  they  must  hunt,  to  ride  after  the 
fox,  "  the  nightly  robber  of  the  fold,"  and,  "  pitiless,  pour  their  sportive 


•^^^•^m- 


u   -=—  1-ii  -  T.yTSTTTra  tttttt:*-'  ±i*  i>  I  bec2U5c  ii  eats  ducks, 

.^rc    ;    L     :•-    i-i   r  acsans  iiLntiib'e  :'-.:;:  thev  could  ever 

hire    '-ei-d  him    speak  with 


-rtr -..c  a:  iij*  ?C3  — k-\  pi^ickr,  little  beast 


-\^   _:r  1  i-is  "=.   iac  sired  is  brush  after  alL   At 

s  ni^rsd  recazse  it  kills  chickens, 
rhii  can  haj^)en  to  it,  b 


kAl^Ma 


zzu. 


r  :c*  •  seen  '     Tbs  singular  bet  dut 
1:1:^    rr    —  _.^      ::   :nzr  1:  :«t  rccfi  abrc^i  have  corrected  Ac 

'  .:.    :.-      :..-    :    ir=s   saciy  ±;;    sine.     Because  the  beatf 

zzrrsr^   zzzL  T --T   ^iai  i:  zanii  r  :*  ssic  :o  n:eri:  the  death 

«rr.^  .-tri^.-;;   :  iTi::!   rn  iuiincs  T'Zrsire  isi  tear  it  to  pieces 

,3l:  T^.ur:^  -- i   ..zszLins  j:  czngzi  n  x  v-tt  sr-ciii&d  but  most  dcfr 

im-sirrf  :c  :i;="3srii:g  an  oner. 

FHII.    ROBIXSON. 


457 


THE   QUEEN'S   MARYS. 

I. 

REFERENCE  is  seldom  made  to  the  Queen's  Marys,  the  four 
Maids  of  Honour  whose  romantic  attachment  to  their  royal 
mistress  and  namesake,  the  ill-fated  Queen  of  Scots,  has  thrown  such 
a  halo  of  popularity  and  sympathy  about  their  memory,  without 
calling  forth  the  well-known  lines  : — 

Yestreen  the  Queen  had  four  Maries, 
The  night  she'll  hae  but  three  ; 
There  was  Marie  Seton,  and  Marie  Beton, 
And  Marie  Carmichael  and  me. 

To  those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  whole  of  the  ballad,  which 
records  the  sad  fate  of  the  guilty  Mary  Hamilton,  it  must  have 
occurred  that  there  is  a  striking  incongruity  between  the  traditional 
loyalty  of  the  Queen's  Marys  and  the  alleged  execution  of  one  of 
their  number,  on  the  denunciation  of  the  offended  Queen  herself,  for 
the  murder  of  an  illegitimate  child,  the  reputed  offspring  of  a  criminal 
intrigue  with  Darnley.  Yet,  a  closer  investigation  of  the  facts 
assumed  in  the  ballad  leads  to  a  discovery  more  unexpected  than 
even  this.-  It  establishes,  beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt,  that,  of 
the  four  family-names  given  in  this  stanza  as  those  of  the  four  Marys, 
two  only  are  authentic.  Mary  Carmichael  and  Mary  Hamilton 
herself  are  mere  poetical  myths.  Not  only  does  no  mention  of  them 
occur  in  any  of  the  lists  still  extant  of  the  Queen's  personal  attend- 
ants, but  there  also  exist  documents  of  all  kinds,  from  serious  histo- 
rical narrative  and  authoritative  charter  to  gossiping  correspondence 
and  polished  epigram,  to  prove  that  the  colleagues  of  Mary  Beton 
and  Mary  Seton  were  Mary  Fleming  and  Mary  Livingston.  How 
the  apocryphal  names  have  found  their  way  into  the  ballad,  or  how 
the  ballad  itself  has  come  to  be  connected  with  the  Maids  of 
Honour,  cannot  be  determined.  The  only  passage  which  may  be 
looked  upon  as  furnishing  a  possible  foundation  of  truth  to  the  whole 
fiction  is  one  in  which  John  Knox  records  the  commission  and  the 
punishment  of  a  crime  similar  to  that  for  which  Mary  Hamilton  is 
represented  as  about  to  die  on  the  gallows.     "  In  the  very  time  of 


wmmmm 


450 

the  General  Assembly  there  comes  to  public  knowledge  a  hapous^ 
raunher,  committed  in  the  Court  ;  yea,  not  far  from  the  queen's  lap  r-    , 
for  a  French  woman,  thai  sencd  in  the  queen's  chamber,  had  playeiC^ 
the  whore  with  the  queen's  own  apothecary.     The  woman  conceivec>, 
and  bare  a  child,  whom  with  common  consent,  the  father  and  mothe'  :^^ 
murthered  ;  yet  were  the  cries  of  a  new-bome  childe  hearde,  search^^-j 
was  made,  the  childe  and  the  mother  were  both  apprehended,  au^^cj 
so  was  the  man  and  the  woman  condemned  to  be  hanged  in  lb — ^ 
publicke  street  of  Edinburgh,    The  punishment  was  suitable,  becaus  ^^j, 
the  crime  was  liainous." '     Between  this  historical  fact — for  which        ^ 
must,  however,  be  noticed  that  Knox  is  the  only  voucher — and  I'^fef^ 
ballad,  which  substitutes  Damley  and  one  of  the  Maids  of  Honi^-wr  | 
for  the  queen's  apothecary  and  a  nameless  waiting- worn  an,  the  cc»t].  . 
nection  is  not  very  dose.     Indeed,  there  is  but  one  point  on  whi-«?* 
both  accounts  are  in  agreement,  though  that,  it  is  tnie,  is  an  impoxt- 
ant   one.     The    unnatural   mother  whose   crime,  with   its   condi^ 
punishment,  is  mentioned  by  the  historian,  was,  he  says,  a  Freaa«ii 
woman.     The  Mary  Hamilton  of  the  ballad,  in  spile  of  a  namewbicfi 
certainly  does  not  point  to  a  foreign  origin,  is  also  made  to  come 
from  over  the  seas  :— 

I  charge  ye  all,  ye  maiiners, 

When  ye  sail  owet  the  faetn  ', 
Lfl  nciiher  my  fathei  nor  my  moihet  get  v 

Bui  thai  I'm  coming  hame. 


O,  little  did  my  inothei  ken, 
The  day  she  cradled  me ; 
lan.ls  I  was  to  travel  in, 
Or  the  dealh  I  was  to  dee. 


4 


It  does  not,  however,  come  within  the  scope  of  the  present  pap* 
to  examine  more  closely  into  the  ballad  of  Mary  Hamiltoa  " 
suffices  to  have  made  it  clear  that,  whatever  be  their  origin,  the  veU- 
known  verses  have  no  historical  worth  or  significance,  and  no  re"' 
claim  to  the  title  of  "  The  Queen's  Marie  "  prefixed  to  them  in  l^ 
"  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border."  Except  for  the  purpose  ">• 
correcting  the  erroneous,  but  general  belief,  which  has  been  prop*" 
gated  by  the  singular  and  altogether  unwarranted  mention  of  th^ 
"  Four  Maries,"  and  the  introduction  of  the  names  of  two  of  them  i** 
the  oft-quoted  stanza,  there  would,  in  reality,  be  no  necessity  foran>' 
allusion  to  the  popular  poem  in  a  sketch  of  the  career  of  the  to*" 
Maids  of  Honour,  whose  touching  fidelity  through  good  and  «"* 
fortune  has  won  for  them  a  greater  share  of  interest  than  is  enjoyM^ 


'  Knox's  Hislery  of  the  ReUi. 


The  Queetis  Marys.  459 

by  any  of  the  subordinate  characters  in  the  great  historical  drama  of 
which  their  royal  mistress  is  the  central  figure. 

Tlie  first  historical  and  authoritative  mention  of  the  four  Marys  is 
from  the  pen  of  one  who  was  personally  and  intimately  acquainted 
with  them — John  Leslie,  Bishop  of  Ross.  It  occurs  in  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  departure  of  the  infant  Mary  Stuart  from  the  small 
harbour  at  the  foot  of  the  beetling,  castle-crowned  rock  of  Dunbarton, 
on  that  memorable  voyage  which  so  nearly  resembled  a  flight.  "  All 
things  being  reddy  for  the  jomay,"  writes  the  chronicler,  in  his 
quaint  northern  idiom,  "  the  Quene  being  as  than  betuix  fyve  and 
sax  yearis  of  aige,  wes  delivered  to  the  quene  dowarier  hir  moder, 
and  wes  embarqued  in  the  Kingis  owen  gallay,  and  with  her  the  Lord 
Erskyn  and  Lord  Levingstoun  quha  had  bene  hir  keparis,  and  the 
Lady  Fleming  her  fadir  sister,  with  sindre  gentilvvemen  and  nobill 
mennis  sonnes  and  dochteres,  almoist  of  hir  owin  age  ;  of  the  quhilkes 
thair  wes  four  in  speciall,  of  whom  everie  one  of  thame  buir  the 
samin  name  of  Marie,  being  of  four  syndre  honorable  houses,  to  wy  t, 
Fleming,  Levingstoun,  Seton  and  Betoun  of  Creich  ;  quho  remain  it 
all  foure  with  the  Quene  in  France,  during  her  residens  thair,  and 
returned  agane  in  Scotland  with  her  Majestie  in  the  yeir  of  our  Lord 
jmycixj  yeris."  Of  the  education  and  early  training  of  the  four 
Marys,  as  companions  and  playmates  of  the  youthful  queen,  we  have 
no  special  record.  The  deficiency  ^s  one  which  our  knowledge  of 
the  wild  doings  of  the  gayest  court  of  the  age  makes  it  easy  to  supply. 
For  the  Scottish  maidens,  as  for  their  mistress,  intercourse  with  the 
frivolous  company  that  gathered  about  Catherine  de  Medici  was  but 
indifferent  preparation  for  the  serious  business  of  life.  Looking  back 
on  "  those  French  years,"  doubtless  they  too,  like  her,  "  only  seemed 
to  see — 

A  light  of  swords  and  singing,  only  hear 
Laughter  of  love  and  lovely  stress  of  lutes, 
And  in  between  the  passion  of  them  borne 
Sound  of  swords  crossing  ever,  as  of  feet 
Dancing,  and  life  and  death  still  equally 
Blithe  and  bright-eyed  from  battle.  *' 

Brantome,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  so  much  personal  de- 
scription of  Mary  Stuart,  and  so  many  intimate  details  concerning 
her  character,  tastes,  and  acquirements,  is  less  communicative  with 
respect  to  her  four  fair  attendants.  He  merely  mentions  them  amongst 
the  court  beauties  as  "  Mesdamoiselles  de  Flammin,  de  Ceton,  Beton, 
Leviston,  escoissaises."  He  makes  no  allusion  to  them  in  the  pathetic 
description  of  the  young  queen's  departure  from  her  "  sweet  France," 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

on  the  fateful  24th  of  August,  a  date  which  subsequent  evei 
destined  to  mark  with  a  fearful  stain  of  blood,  in  ihe  family  to 
she  was  allied.     Yet,  itoiibttess  they,  loo,  were  gazing  with  tea^^ 
eyes  at  the  receding  shore,  blessing  the  calm  which  retarded  iV»o^ 
course,  trembling  wiili  vague  fears  as  their  voyage  began  amidst    tie 
cries  of  drowning  men,  and  half-wishing  that  the  English  ships  of  tbc 
jealous  Elizabeth  might  prevent  them  from  reaching  their  dreaiy  des- 
tination.      That  ihey  were  with   their  royal   namesake,  we  knot. 
Leslie,  who,  with  Braotome  and  the  unforiunate  Chastelard,  aecim- 
panied  the  idol  of  France  to  her  unsympathetic  northern  \imt, 
sgain  makes  special  note  of  "  the  four  maidis  of  honour  quha  paml 
with  hir  Hienes  in  France,  of  hir  awin  aige,  bering  the  name  evme 
ane  of  Marie,  as  is  befoir  mencioned." 

During  the  first  years  of  Mary  Stuart's  slay  in  her  capital,  lbs 
four  maids  of  honour  played  conspicuous  parts  in  all  the  amusemenis 
and  festivities  of  the  court,  and  were  amongst  those  who  incurred 
the  censure  of  the  austere  Reformers  for  introducing  into  Holynwd 
the  "  balling,  and  dancing,  and  banqueting  "  of  Amboise  and  Foniaine- 
bleau.  Were  our  information  about  the  masques  acted  at  the  Scoliish 
court  less  scanty,  we  should,  doubtless,  often  find  the  names  of  tli* 
four  Marys  amongst  the  performers.  Who  more  fit  than  they  W 
figure  in  the  first  masque  represented  at  Holyrood,  in  October,  is6'i 
at  the  Queen's  farewell  banquet  to  her  uncle,  the  Grand  Prior  of  ^ 
Knights  of  St.  JoJin,  and  to  take  their  places  amongst  the  Slus^s 
who  marched  in  procession  before  the  throne,  reciting  BuchanaB' 
flattering  verses  in  praise  of  the  lettered  court  of  the  Queen  of."'   ^ 


Banished  by  W.ir,  lo  thee  we  take  out  tiighl, 
Who  worships  all  the  Muses,  purely  tight. 

We  don't  complain  ;  out  banishment's  oui  gain, 
To  look  □□  us,  if  thou  sholt  not  disdain.  ' 


of^gL 


Had  Marioreybanks  given  us  the  names  of  those  who  took  paH  •* 
the  festivities  which  he  describes  as  having  taken  place  on  the  p*-'  i 
casion  of  Lord  Fleming's  marriage,  can  we  doubt  that  the  Mai?"^  j 
would  have  been  found  actively  engaged  in  the  open-air  perfontun'^ 
"  in  the  Parke  of  Holyroudhous,  under  Arthur's  Sealt,  at  the  end  "J 
the  loche  "  ?  Indeed,  it  is  not  matter  of  mere  conjecture,  bm  ^ 
authentic  historical  record,  that  on  more  than  one  occasion  EU" 
chanan  did  actually  introduce  the  Queen's  namesakes  amongst^* 
dramatis  personre  of  the  masques  which,  as  virtual  laureate  of '''' 

■  The  translations  of  this  and  ihe  following  quotation*  from  Bndunio  h*** 
least  one  merit,  that  of  .inliquily ;  ihej'  are  Monlcilh's 


The  Queens  Marys.  461 

Scottish  court,  he  was  called  upon  to  supply.  The  "  Diurnal  of  Oc- 
currents"  mentions  that  "  upoun  the  ellevint  day  of  the  said  moneth 
(February)  the  King  and  Quene  in  lyik  manner  bankettit  the  samin 
(French)  Ambassatour  ;  and  at  evin  our  Soveranis  maid  the  raaskrie 
and  mumschance,  in  the  quhilk  the  Queenis  Grace  and  all  hir  Maries 
and  ladies  wer  all  cled  in  men*s  apperell  ;  and  everie  ane  of  thame 
presentit  one  quhingar,  bravelie  and  maist  artificiallie  made  and  em- 
broiderit  with  gold,  to  the  said  Ambassatour  and  his  gentilmen, 
everie  ane  of  thame  according  to  his  estate."  That  this,  moreover, 
was  not  the  first  appearance  of  the  fair  performers  we  also  know,  for 
it  was  they  who  bore  the  chief  parts  in  the  third  masque  acted 
during  the  festivities  which  attended  the  Queen's  marriage  with 
Damley  ;  and  it  was  one  of  them,  perhaps  Mary  Beton,  the  scholar 
of  the  court,  who  recited  the  verses  which  Buchanan  had  introduced 
in  allusion  to  their  royal  mistress's  recovery  from  some  illness  other- 
wise unrecorded  in  history  : — 

Kind  Goddess,  Safety  ;  Nymphs  four  plead  with  thee, 

Thou  to  their  Queen  will  reconciled  be  ; 

And,  as  thou  hast  reduced  her  to  health 

(More  valuable  far  than  richest  wealth), 

So  in  her  breast,  thou  wilt  thyself  enshrine, 

For  there  sublimest  worship  shall  be  thine. 

That  the  four  Nymphs  mentioned  in  this,  the  only  fragment 
of  the  masque  which  has  been  preserved,  were  the  four  Marys,  is 
explained  by  Buchanan's  commentator  Ruddiman  :  "  Nymphas  hie 
vocat  quatuor  Mariae  Scotse  corporis  ministras,  quae  etiam  omnes 
Manse  nominabantur."  It  is  more  than  probable,  too,  that  the  Marys 
were  not  merely  spectators  of  the  masque  which  formed  a  part  of 
the  first  day's  amusements,  and  of  which  they  themselves  were  the 
subject-matter.  It  may  still  be  read  under  the  title  of  **  Pompa 
Deorum  in  Nuptiis  Manse,"  in  Buchanan's  Latin  poems.  Diana 
opens  the  masque,  which  is  but  a  short  mythological  dialogue,  with 
a  complaint  to  the  ruler  of  Olympus  that  one  of  her  five  Marys — the 
Queen  herself  is  here  included — has  been  taken  from  her  by  the 
envious  arts  of  Venus  and  of  Juno  : — 

Great  Father,  Maries  five  late  served  me, 
Were  of  my  (^uire  the  glorious  dignitie  ; 
With  these  dear  five  the  Heaven  I'd  regain, 
The  happiness  of  other  gods  to  stain  ; 
At  my  lot,  Juno,  Venus,  were  in  ire. 
And  stole  away  one  from  my  comely  quire. 
Whose  want  so  grieves  the  rest,  as  when  we  see 
The  Pleiads  shine,  whereof  one  wanting  be. 


'  4^2  Tilt  Genileman's  Magasitu, 

In  tbe  dialogue  nhich  follows,  and  in  wliich  five  goddes 
five  gods  uke  part,  ApoUo  chimes  in  with  a.  [m>phec]r  which  v^^ 
only  partially  accomplished  :— 

Fear  not,  Diana,  I  good  tidiness  bring. 

(And  unio  fan  clad  oracles  1  sing  ; 
Judo  otnnuuids  jaiu  Maries  lo  be  married, 
And  in  a'J  state  to  marriage  lo  be  carried. 

In  his  summing  tip,  which,  as  may  be  imagined,  is  not  WJ 
favourable  to  the  complainant,  the  Olympian  judge  also  introdiKe 
a  prettily  turned  compliment  to  the  Marys  :— 


Five  Maries  thine,  whose  beanly,  gfntce,  and  wi[ 
Might  with  five  fairest  godcsses  compete  ; 
Deserving  gods  in  wedlock,  if  hard  Tale 

Allow  ihc  gods  10  undergo  (hat  state. 


IdesscflH 
lich  v^^ 

lot  wj    ' 

xluces 

4 


The  whole  pageant  closes  with  an  epilogue  spoken  by  the  herald 
Talthybius,  who  also  foretells  further  defections  from  Diana's 
maidens  : — 

Another  marriage  now  I    Sounds  reach  the  sky, 
Aaotlier  Mary  joiQed  in  nuptial  lie. 

As  was  but  natural,  the  Queen's  favourite  attendants  possessed 
considerable  influence  with  their  royal  lady,  and  the  sequel  will  shon, 
in  the  case  of  each  of  ihem,  how  eagerly  their  good  offices  were 
sought  after  by  courtiers  and  ambassadors  anxious  for  the  succaiof 
their  several  suits  and  missions.  In  a  letter  which  Randolph  wrote 
to  Cecil  on  the  24th  of  October,  156+,  and  which,  as  applying  to  ibe 
Marys  collectively,  may  be  quoted  here,  we  are  shown  the  hanf^ty 
Lennox  himself  condescending  to  make  pretty  presents  to  the  mail's 
with  a  view  to  ingratiating  himself  with  the  mistress.  "  He  presenirf 
also  each  of  the  Marys  with  such  pretty  things  as  he  thought  filial 
for  them,  such  good  means  he  hath  to  win  their  hearts,  and  to  mate 
his  way  to  further  effect," 

11. 

It  is  scarcely  die  result  of  mere  chance  that,  in  the  chronides 
which  make  mention  of  the  four  Marys,  Mary  I'leming's  name  usually 
takes  precedence  of  those  of  her  three  colleagues.  She  seeow'* 
have  been  tacitly  recognised  as  "prima  inter  pares."  This  ■*% 
doubtless,  less  in  consequence  of  her  belonging  to  one  of  theS^l 
houses  in  Scotland,  for  the  Livingstones,  the  Betons,  and  tlie  Seion* 
might  well  claim  equality  with  the  Flemings,  than  of  her  being  doseiy 
related  to  Mary  Stuart  herself,  though  the  relationship,  it  is  true,  ws 


Tlie  Queens  Marys.  463 

only  on  the  side  of  the  distaff,  and  though  there  was,  moreover,  a 
bar  sinister  on  the  royal  quarterings  which  it  added  to  the  escutcheon 
of  the  Flemings.  Mary  Fleming — Marie  Flemyng,  as  she  signed  her- 
self, or  Flamy,  as  she  was  called  in  the  Queen's  broken  English — was 
the  fourth  daughter  of  Malcolm  third  Lord  Fleming.  Her  mother, 
Janet  Stuart,  was  a  natural  daughter  of  King  James  IV.  Mary 
Fleming  and  her  royal  mistress  were  consequently  first  cousins.  This 
may  sufficiently  account  for  the  greater  intimacy  which  existed 
between  them.  Thus,  after  Chastelard's  outrage,  it  was  Mary  Fleming 
whom  the  Queen,  dreading  the  loneliness  which  had  rendered  the 
wild  attempt  possible,  called  in  to  sleep  with  her,  for  protection. 

Amongst  the  various  festivities  and  celebrations  which  were  re- 
vived in  Holyrood  by  Mary  and  the  suite  which  she  had  brought  with 
her  from  the  gay  court  of  France,  that  of  Twelfth  Night  seems  to  have 
been  in  high  favour,  as,  indeed,  it  still  is,  in  some  provinces  of  France, 
at  the  present  day.     In  the  "  gateau  des  Rois,"  or  Twelfth  Night 
Cake,  it  was  customary  to  hide  a  bean,  and  when  the  cake  was  cut 
up  and  distributed,  the  person  to  whom  chance — or  not  unfrequently 
design — brought  the  piece  containing  the  bean,  was  recognised  sole 
monarch  of  the  revels  until  the  stroke  of  midnight.     On  the  6th  of 
January  1563,  Mary  Fleming  was  elected  queen  by  favour  of  the  bean. 
Her  mistress,  entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  festivities  with  her  charac- 
teristic considerateness  for  even  the  amusement   of  those  about 
her,  abdicated  her  state  in  favour  of  the  mimic  monarch  of  the  night. 
A  letter  written  by  Randolph  to  Lord  Dudley,  and  bearing  the  date 
of  the  15th  of  January,  gives  an  interesting  and  vivid  picture  of  the 
fair  maid  of  honour  decked  out  in  her  royal  mistress's  jewels  :  "  You 
should  have  seen  here  upon  Tuesday  the  great  solemnity  and  royall 
estate  of  the  Queene  of  the  Beene.     Fortune  was  so  favourable  to 
faire  Flemyng,  that,  if  shee  could  have  seen  to  have  judged  of  her 
vertue  and  beauty,  as  blindly  she  went  to  work  and  chose  her  at 
adventure,  shee  would  sooner  have  made  her  Queen  for  ever,  then  for 
one  night  only,  to  exalt  her  so  high  and  the  nixt  to  leave  her  in  the 
state  she  found  her.  .  .  .  That  day  yt  was  to  be  seen,  by  her  princely 
pomp,  how  fite  a  match  she  would  be,  wer  she  to  contend  ether 
with  Venus  in  beauty,  Minerva  in  witt,  or  Juno  in  worldly  wealth, 
havcing  the  two  former  by  nature,  and  of  the  third  so  much  as  is 
contained  in  this  realme  at  her  command  and  free  disposition.     The 
treasure  of  Solomon,  I  trowe,  was  not  to  be  compared  unto  that  which 
hanged  upon  her  back.  .  .  .  The  Queen  of  the  Been  was  in  a  gowne 
of  cloath  of  silver ;  her  head,  her  neck,  her  shoulders,  the  rest  of  her 
whole  body,  so  besett  with  stones,  that  more  in  our  whole  jewell  house 


';  T':-:  G:Kt-:i::a9is  Sl/ugazine. 

■  .:  - ::  :    '. .  :"  -"  i-     The  <  jucen  herself  was  apparelled  in  coUours 
■4     -.  .1- :     -:<.  r.  ?  ::>.er  jewdl  or  gold  about  her  hot  the  ring  that  I 

-     :  * :    ■ .  r    ': :  r:.  '.'.  e  <  j  ir  cr.s  Majestic  hanging  at  her  breast,  with  i 
:     ■  v-  :  17.  i  '.  .i:k  ^l  :u:  her  neck."     In  another  letter  the  same 

--.-■.    :     . ?  e. ^ ".  r.:  ?:e  cr.:>.i: rustic.  Writing  to  Leicester  he  says : 

.:>.:..-:;  :'/.:>  :■:.  'r.:  that  her  reign'endured  no  longer.  Two 

- .  ..  •  ,""">   "1  :r. .  :j:j.:-.  :r.  so  good  accord,  I  believe  was  ne\'er  seen, 

>  :      ..  *   ' :  :-t:  "^  ir.'r.y  -r^eens  possess,  without  en\y,  one  kingdom, 

»,-.-     ■;■  -■.!:■ .     I  '.;:J.ve  :!-.e  rest  to  your  lordship  to  be  judged  of. 
^;       . :  >:  .:.:i:^:""..  *:;.  '.jir.i  f^;!eih,  further  to  \iTite.  -  .  .  The  cheer 

.  >  ^-..::      1  r.c-.M:  :":^r.d  n'.vself  so  happy,  nor  so  well  treated,  until 
•.-J.:         -.-■--   :     :',:  ••::-:  that  :*.'.e  old  queen  herself,  to  show  her 

•  ,:   : .  -..-:.:  r.:ri:y  ir.:?  the  assurance  granted  me  by  the  younger 
_:.-.  .".-.      v..    ::     :"  ,:  i:r.».'o.  \ir.:ch  j  art  of  the  play  I  could  with 

^;.   •.   .'.  • . :   ^  .::.  :  :.^   y:ur   1  rdship,  as   much   titter  for  the 

:  .?  r-..'f:;;-:".dc  jajeant  was  also  celebrated  by  the 

.^:  1"..:  .■.•■.:'.     A:v... r. j?:   his  epigrams  there  is  one  bearing 

:    :    .    .         A.i  M.::  ;.:::   i '.::-. n. am  sorte   Reginam."     It   is  thus 

.■     •_.„.■.•..•*■-  ^r-"«"     "■■■.__ 

■  ^*-.>*.     •*.*>>te.a-^  Li ^i^ ««i cr,  a 

V      -  ■  ■  ■ ;  ■*■>'■'  >-  i>:  ■-  *^r.  a  'Jueen,  most  sure  : 
...   .^;:^  -;-.',  :r  iieauiv  rare, 
:  >:.     .-?  :      .  i  ir.*  ij:h  l-cyond  compare  : 
.-:-  w.:!:  \i:-he>  frail  a^ree, 
^..    -■..-.-■".■  '..-  "  ^jjvtjrs  vriv'ii  to  ihec  ; 
..   .-         ■•:  M'.   ;.- :  -n    i  irc-u  L».:r.'i, 
^  .:',■■-::«.  :>.:*  f.'oI:>h  in  her  mind  ; 

'    .     --.  -   :     :■.•".  r.r  blir.i,  she'i  r.i.ways  be, 
'.    •    .•  -.■-":■'  .-.  "C:.  :>.T  un:  >  :hoo  : 

X  *.    ;:.'/■.  :r  W  r.\,  we  I  her.  nwisl  sav, 

:"•.'  ■*  V     s    V\"\"^  '  :V-.:r.d  an  admirer  amongst  the  English 

■  •■',-■':  \/\^-  •  ;"  :;.\'.'.  b.isir.jfs  hai  broui:ht  to  the  Scotch  court. 

r*  s  \\.\<  S.:  :lv*v^  S.  ■.:*.:;..  ^:"v.  hor.i  Xaunton  reports  that  he  was  a 

^- ..  ., ^-    -T,.::  •.;::>'     A<  Sir  Hcnrv  was  bom  in   i^io,  and 

v.-*>s  '.■*-•.    -'-r   '...'".v   \..-.r>  o'.J.cr  than  the  youthful  maid  of 

*  . . .  ^     ,  •  •  N  /     /,'..■.••-'.:  h  J  V  v*  >icc rod  :o  h ave  been  a  \&ry  judicious 
K-,^\   'v".  V  '.'  :'.*    '.."i-.'.vWi^s  cf  his  sv.it  appear  greatly  astonishing. 

\'\l  \v-  .  .■>  r-s^  -s    ."x-  ^^"-^  • '  <''.-.v.  yi^ry  Fleming  had  no  insuper- 

/.h'.v'  v*V  v\ '.-•*.  '-^  •■.•*  .'.v:\. •.:•:.... >.vV;>  nia:c:i  on  the  score  of  disparity  of 

\\\  \\\^  \<\\x  tVV:OA\in.:  tlat  in  which  she  figured  as  Queen  of 

ilu'  l»x-an  .:t   Ho*\:o.vi.  :ho  Li'^ssipirg  correspondence  of  the  time 


-1^^'St* 


tipaiialeB  irreverenily  enough  on  Secretary  Maitland's  wooing  of  tJ 

_iuid  of  honour.     He  was  about  forty  at  the  time,  and  it  was  i 

y  long  since  his  first  wife,  Janet   Monteith,   had  died.     Mary 

uning  was  about  two-and- twenty.     There  was,  conseq-iently,  some 

iw  of  reason  for  ihe  remark  made  by  Kirkcaldy  of  Grange,  in  com- 

imicating  to  Randolph  the  new  matrimonial  project  in  which  Mait- 

d  was  embarked :    "  The  Secretary's  wife  is  dead,  and  he  is  a 

to  Mary  Fleming,  who  is  as  meet  for  him  as  I  am  to  be  a 

Cecil  appears  to  have  been  taken  into  the  Laird  of  Lething- 

ps's  confidence,  and  to  have  found  amusement  in  the  enamoured 

tesman's  extravagance.     "  The  common  affairs  do  never  so  much 

ooble  me  but  ihal  at  least  I  have  one  merry  hour  of  ihe  four-and- 

fniy.  ,  .  ,  Those    that    be  in    love  are  ever  set   upon  a  merry 

i;  yet  I  take  this  to  be  a  most  singular  remedy  for  all  diseases  in 

Hpersons."     Two  of  the  keenest  politicians  of  their  age  laying  aside 

ir diplomatic  gravity  and  forgetting  the  jealousies  and  the  rivalry 

■their  respective  courts  to  discuss  the  channs  of  the  Queen's  youlh- 

il  Duiid  of  honour  :  it  is  a  charming  historical  vignette  not  without 

leresl  and  humour  even  at  this  length  of  lime.     We  may  judge  to 

bl  extent  the  Secretary  was  "set  on  a  merry  pin,"  from  Randolph's 

3iption  of  the  courtship.     In  a  letter  dated  March  31st,  1565, 

d  addressed  to  Sir  Henry  Sidney,  Mary  Fleming's  old  admirer,  he 

She  neither  remembereth  you,  nor  scarcely  acknowledgelh 

tktyou  are  her  man.     Your  lordship,  therefore,  need  not  to  pride 

a  of  any  such  mistress  in  this  court ;    she    hath  found  another 

icm  she  doth  love  belter.     Lethington  now  serveth  her  alone,  and 

i-  like,  for  her  sake,  to  run  beside  himself.     Both  night  and  day 

ft  attendeth,  he  waichcih,  hewooeth — his  folly  never  more  apparent 

n  in  loving  her,  where  he  may  be  assured  that,  how  much  soever 

t  make  of  her,  she  will  always  love  another  better.    This  much  1  have 

Kitten  for  the  worthy  praise  of  your  noble  mistress,  who,  now  being 

ther  much  worth  in  beauty,  nor  greatly  to  be  praised  in  virtue,  is 

ttlent,  in  place  of  lords  and  earls,  to  accept  to  her  service  a  poor 

'  Pen  clerk."     We  have  not  to  reconcile  the  ill-natured  and  slanderous 

tiiiarks  of  Randolph's  letter  with  the  glowing  panegyric  penned  by 

'•ub  some  two  years  previously.     That  he  intended  to  comfort  the 

■Ejected  suitor,  and   to  lone   down   the  disappointment  and  the 

'^alousy  which  he  might  feel  at  the  success  of  a  rival  not  greatly 

J'ounger  than  himself,  would  be  too  charitable  a  supposition.     It  is 

''ot  improbable  that  he  may  have  had  more  personal  reasons  for  his 

^I>iie,  and  that  when,  in  the  same  letter,  he  describes  '■  Fleming  that 

'^ice  was  so  fair,"  wishing  "  with  many  a  sigh  that  Randolph  had 

VOL  ccLvni,     NO.  1853.  K  K 


\ 


466  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

served  her,"  he  is  giving  a  distorted  and  unscrupulous  version  of  an 
episode  not  unlike  that  between  Mary  Fleming  and  Sir  Henry  him- 
self. To  give  even  the  not  ver>-  high-minded  Randolph  his  due, 
however,  it  is  but  fair  to  add  that  his  later  letters,  whilst  fully  bearing 
out  what  he  had  previously  stated  with  regard  to  Maitland's  love- 
making,  throw  no  doubt  on  Mary's  sincerity :  '*  Lethington  hath 
now  leave  and  time  to  court  his  mistress,  Mary  Fleming;"  and, 
again,  '*  My  old  friend,  Lethington,  hath  leisure  to  make  love;  and, 
in  the  end,  I  believe,  as  wise  as  he  is,  will  show  himself  a  very  fool, 
or  stark,  staring  mad."  This  "  leisure  to  make  love  "  is  attributed 
to  Rizzio,  then  in  high  favour  with  the  Queen.  This  was  about  the 
end  of  1565.  Early  in  1566,  however,  the  unfortunate  Italian  was 
murdered  under  circumstances  too  familiar  to  need  repetition,  and 
for  his  share  in  the  unwarrantable  transaction.  Secretary  Maitland 
was  banished  from  the  royal  presence.  The  lovers  were,  in  cons^ 
quence,  parted  for  some  six  months,  from  March  to  September.  It 
was  about  this  time  that  Queen  Mar>*,  dreading  the  hour  of  her 
approaching  travail,  and  haunted  by  a  presentiment  that  it  would 
prove  fatal  to  her,  caused  inventories  of  her  private  effects  to  be 
drawn  up,  and  made  legacies  to  her  personal  friends  and  attendants 
I'he  four  Marys  were  not  forgotten.  They  were  each  to  receive  a 
diamond ;  ^'  Aux  quatre  Maries,  quatre  autres  petis  diamants  de 
diverse  fa<;on,"  besides  a  portion  of  the  Queen's  needlework  and 
linen  :  "  tous  mes  onurasges,  manches  et  collets  aux  quatre  Maries." 
In  addition  to  this,  there  was  set  down  for  "  Flamy,"  twq  pieces  of 
gold  lace  with  ornaments  of  white  and  red  enamel,  a  dress,  a  neck- 
lace, and  a  chain  to  be  used  as  a  girdle.  We  may  infer  that  red  and 
white  were  the  maid  of  honour's  favourite  colours,  for  •'  blancq  ct 
rouge  "  appear  in  some  form  or  another  in  all  the  items  of  the 
intended  legacy.^ 

As  we  have  said,  the  Secretary's  disgrace  was  not  of  long  duration. 
About  September  he  was  reinstated  in  the  Queen's  favour,  and  in 
December  received  from  her  a  dress  of  cloth  of  gold  trimmed  with 
silver  lace  :  "  Une  vas(juyne  de  toille  d'or  plaine  auecq  le  corps  dc 
mesme  fait  a  bourletz  borde  dung  passemcnt  dargent" 

»  *•  A  I'laiiiy.  Vnc  brodurc  dor  esmaille  dc  blancq  ct  rouge  contenuite 
xxxvij  pieces. 

Vnc  brodure  doiclctte  dc  mcMne  r;iv<jn  garnyc  de  Ij  piece  esoaaille  deb  lanq 
et  rouge. 

Vnc  cottouere  dc  mesmc  fnc^on  contenantc  suixante  piece  cstnaille  de  blanc  et 

rouge. 

Vng  quarquan  csmaillc  aussy  de  blancq  ct  rouge  garny  de  vingl  une  piece. 

Vnechcsnca  saindre  en  scmblablc  fa9on  contenantc  lij  pieces  csmaillei  de 
\^^r^i^.mk  rAii<T«»  v-t  vng  vazc  pandanl  au  Ijout, '' 


The  Queens  Marys.  467 

On  the  6th  of  January,  1567,  William  Maitland  of  Lethington 
and  Mar)'  Fleming  were  married  at  Stirling,  where  the  Queen  was 
keeping  her  court,  and  where  she  spent  the  last  Twelfth-Tide  she 
was  to  see  outside  the  walls  of  a  prison.  The  Secretary's  wife,  as 
Mary  was  frequently  styled  after  her  marriage,  did  not  cease  to  be  in 
attendance  upon  her  royal  cousin,  and  we  get  occasional  glimpses  of 
her  in  the  troubled  times  which  were  to  follow.  Thus,  on  the  event- 
ful rooming  on  which  BothwelUs  trial  began,  Mary  Fleming  stood 
with  the  Queen  at  the  window  from  which  the  latter,  after  having 
imprudently  refused  an  audience  to  the  Provost-Marshal  of  Berwick, 
Elizabeth's  messenger,  still  more  imprudently  watched  the  bold  Earl's 
departure  and,  it  was  reported,  smiled  and  nodded  encouragement. 
Again,  in  the  enquiry  which  followed  the  Queen's  escape  from  Loch- 
leven,  it  appeared  that  her  cousin  had  been  privy  to  the  plot  for  her 
release,  and  had  found  the  means  of  conveying  to  the  royal  captive 
the  assurance  that  her  friends  were  working  for  her  deliverance  : 
**  The  Queen,"  so  ran  the  evidence  of  one  of  the  attendants  examined 
after  the  flight,  "  said  scho  gat  ane  ring  and  three  wordis  in  Italianis 
in  it.  I  iudget  it  cam  fra  the  Secretar,  because  of  the  language. 
Scho  said,  *  Na,  it  was  ane  woman.  All  the  place  saw  hir  weyr  it 
.  .  .  Cursall  show  me  the  Secretaris  wiff  send  it,  and  the  \Teting 
of  it  was  ane  fable  of  Isop  betuix  the  Mouss  and  the  Lioune,  hou 
the  Mouss  for  ane  plesour  done  to  hir  be  the  Lioune,  efter  that,  the 
Lioune  being  bound  with  ane  corde,  the  Mouss  schuyr  the  corde  and 
let  the  Lioune  louss.' " 

During  her  long  captivity  in  England,  the  unfortunate  Queen  was 
not  unmindful  of  the  love  and  devotion  of  her  faithful  attendant. 
Long  years  after  she  had  been  separated  from  her,  whilst  in  prison 
at  Sheffield,  she  gives  expression  to  her  longing  for  the  presence  of 
Mary  Fleming,  and  in  a  letter  written  "  du  manoir  de  Sheffield,"  on 
the  ist  of  May,  1581,  to  Monsieur  de  Mauvissi^re,  the  French 
ambassador,  she  begs  him  to  renew  her  request  to  Elizabeth  that  the 
Lady  of  Lethington  should  be  allowed  to  tend  her  in  "  the  valetudi- 
nary state  into  which  she  has  fallen,  of  late  years,  owing  to  the  bad 
treatment  to  which  she  lias  been  subjected." 

But  the  Secretary's  wife  had  had  her  own  trials  and  her  own 
sorrows.  On  the  9th  of  June,  1573,  her  husband  died  at  Leith, 
"  not  without  suspicion  of  poison,"  according  to  Killigrew.  Whether 
he  died  by  his  own  hand,  or  by  the  act  of  his  enemies,  is  a  question 
which  we  are  not  called  upon  to  discuss.  The  evidence  of  contem- 
poraries is  conflicting,  "  some  supponyng  he  tak  a  drink  and  died  as 
the  auld  Romans  wcr  wont  to  do,"  as  Sir  James  Melville  reports ; 

K  K  2 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

oth^n,  and  amongst  ibese  Queen  Mary  herself,  iba^  he  had 
dealt  with.  WriiiDg  to  Elizabeth,  she  opeoly  git*es  expression  to  & 
beUef :  "the  prindpal  (of  ihc  rebel  lords)  were  besieged  by  ^r 
forces  in  the  Castle  of  Edinburgh,  and  one  of  the  tirsl  among  [heni 
poisoned.' 

MaJtbnd  vi^s  to  hare  been  tried  "for  art  and  part  of  ihe  treaW, 
conspiracy,  consultation,  and  treating  of  the  King's  murder."  Acctml- 
ing  lo  the  law  of  Scotland,  a  traitor's  guilt  was  not  (a n celled  bj 
death.  The  corpse  might  be  arraigned  and  submitted  to  all  tlieindig- 
nities  which  the  barbarous  code  of  the  age  recognised  as  the  punish- 
tnent  of  treason.  It  was  intended  to  infiict  the  fullest  penalty  upon 
Maitland's  corpse,  and  it  remained  unburied  "  till  the  vennin  crept 
under  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  he  was  kept,"  In  her  diBna 
the  widow  applied  lo  Burleigh,  in  a  touching  letter  which  is  still  pi- 
served.     It  bears  the  date  of  the  list  of  June,  1573. 

My  veiy  good  Lord, — After  my  humble  cammcudatioiis,  it  may  pleaM  I'd" 
Lnrd^ip  thai  the  causes  of  Ihe  somwrul  widow,  and  orphonts  being  1>J  Al- 
m^htf  God  Tecommended  lo  the  SDperiot  poweis,  togelhei  with  the  fim  M^ 
fidence  my  lale  bosbaod,  Ihe  Laird  of  Ledinglon,  put  in  your  Lonhhip'i mV 
help  in  ihe  occasion,  lba[  I  his  desolit  wife  (ihcugh  unknown  to  yout  liMfi 
takes  the  boldness  by  these  few  lines  lo  humbLie  requul  yonr  Lordsiip.  llnl " 
my  said  husband  being  olive  expected  no  small  lienefilat  your  huidi,  m  n^' 
may  lind  soch  comfoit,  thai  the  Queen's  Majestie,  your  Sovereign,  ■naybjl^*' 
means  be  moved  lo  write  to  my  Lord  Regent  of  Scotland,  tbst  tbe  body  of  *V 
husband,  ubich  when  Blive  has  not  been  spared  in  hei  hienest' Service,  inq"^' 
after  his  death,  receive  nc  shame,  or  ignominy,  and  that  his  heritige  llim  ^ 
him  during  his  life-time,  now  belonging  to  me  and  bis  children,  Ihji  Yost  ^ 
offended,  by  a  disposition  made  along  lime  ago,  may  be  restored,  which  iiWC"' 
able  both  lo  equily  and  the  tan-s  of  this  realme  ;  and  also  youi  Lordship  *BI  «* 
forget  my  basband's  brolher,  the  Lord  of  Coldingham,  ane  innocent  genllaft 
who  was  never  engaged  in  these  quarrels,  but  for  his  love  to  his  brjiber,  W"*' 
ponied  him,  and  is  nov  a  prisoner  wilh  Ihe  rest,  thai  by  your  good  meiM  »" 
procuremeni,  he  may  be  restored  to  his  own,  which,  beside  the  blessing  of  ^ 
will  also  win  you  the  goodwill  of  many  noblemen  and  gentlemen. 

Burleigh  lost  no  time  in  laying  the  widow's  petition  befi** 
Elizabeth,  and  on  the  19th  of  July  a  letter  written  at  Croydon  *** 
despatched  to  the  Regent  Morton  :  "  For  the  bodie  of  LiddinglMi 
who  died  before  he  was  convict  in  judgment,  and  before  any  answO 
by  him  made  to  the  crymes  objected  to  him,  it  is  not  ourmantf'" 
this  contrey  to  show  crueltey  upon  the  dead  bodies  so  uncomit^ 
but  to  suffer  them  streight  to  be  buried,  and  put  in  the  earth,  f^ 
so  suerly  we  think  it  mele  to  be  done  in  this  case,  for  (as  we  tak« '') 
it  was  God's  pleasure  he  should  by  death  be  taken  away  from  *f 
execucion  of  judgment,  so  we  think  conse<juent1y  that  "it  was  "^^ 
divine  pleasure  that  the  Lodie  now  dead  should  not  be  lacerated,  '^ 


The  Que.ns  Marys,  469 

puUid  in  pieces,  but  be  buried  like  to  one  who  died  in  his  bed,  and 
by  sicknes,  as  he  did." 

Such  a  petitioner  as  the  Queen  of  England  was  not  to  be  denied, 
and  Maitland's  body  was  allowed  the  rites  of  burial.  The  other 
penalties  which  he  had  incurred  by  his  treason — real  or  supposed — 
were  not  remitted.  An  Act  of  Parliament  was  passed  "  for  rendering 
the  children,  both  lawful  and  natural,  of  Sir  William  Maitland  of 
Lethington,  the  younger,  and  of  several  others,  who  had  been  con- 
victed of  the  murder  of  the  King's  father,  incapable  of  enjoying,  or 
claiming,  any  heritages,  lands,  or  possessions  in  Scotland." 

The  widow  herself  was  also  subjected  to  petty  annoyances  at  the 
instigation  of  Morton.  She  was  called  upon  to  restore  the  jewels 
which  her  royal  mistress  had  given  her  in  free  gift,  and  in  particular, 
'*one  chayn  of  rubeis  with  twelf  markes  of  dyamontis  and  rubeis,  and 
ane  mark  with  twa  rubeis."  Even  her  own  relatives  seem  to  have 
turned  against  her  in  her  distress.  In  a  letter  written  in  French  to 
her  sister-in-law,  Isabel,  wife  of  James  Heriot  of  Trabroun,  she  refers 
to  some  accusation  brought  against  her  by  her  husband's  brother, 
Coldingham — the  same  for  whom  she  had  interceded  in  her  letter 
to  Burleigh — and  begs  to  be  informed  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
charge  made  to  the  Regent,  "  car  ace  que  jantans  il  me  charge  de 
quelque  chose,  je  ne  say  que  cest"  The  letter  bears  no  date,  but 
seems  to  have  been  penned  when  the  writer's  misery  was  at  its  sorest, 
for  it  concludes  with  an  earnest  prayer  that  patiencQ  may  be  given 
her  to  bear  the  weight  of  her  misfortunes. 

Better  days,  however,  were  yet  in  store  for  the  much-tried  Mary 
Fleming,  for  in  February  1584  the  "relict  of  umquhill  William  Mait- 
land, younger  of  Lethington,  Secretare  to  our  Soverane  Lord,"  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  a  reversion  of  her  husband's  forfeiture.  In  May 
of  the  same  year,  the  Parliament  allowed  "  Marie  Flemyng  and  hir 
baimis  to  have  bruik  and  inioy  the  same  and  like  fauour,  grace  and 
priuilege  and  conditioun  as  is  contenit  in  the  pacificatioun  maid 
and  accordit  at  Perthe,  the  xxiii  day  of  Februar,  the  yeir  of  God 
jm  yc  Ixxxij  yeiris." 

With  this  document  one  of  the  four  Marys  disappears  from  the 
scene.  Of  her  later  life  we  have  no  record.  That  it  was  thoroughly 
happy  we  can  scarcely  assume,  for  we  know  that  her  only  son  James 
died  in  poverty  and  exile. 

in. 

Maiy  Livingston,  or,  as  she  signed  herself,  Marie  Leuiston,  was 
the  daughter  of  Alexander  fifth  Lord  Livingston.    She  was  a  cousin 


4/0  The  Gentleman s  Magazine. 

of  Mary  yioming's,  and,  like  her,  related,  though  more  distantly,  to 
the  sovereign.  Wlien  she  sailed  from  Scotland  in  1548,  as  one  of 
the  playmates  of  the  infant  Mary  Stuart,  she  was  accompanied  by 
both  her  father  and  her  mother.  Within  a  few  years,  however,  she 
was  left  to  the  sole  care  of  the  latter,  Lord  Livingston  having  died 
in  Krancc  in  \^^\.  Of  her  life  at  the  French  Court  we  have  no 
record.  Her  first  appearance  in  the  pages  of  contemporaiy 
chroni<:lers  is  on  the  22nd  of  April,  1562,  the  year  after  her  return  to 
Scotland.  On  that  date,  the  young  Queen,  who  delighted  in  the  sport 
of  archery,  shot  off  a  match  in  her  private  gardens  at  St  Andrews. 
Her  own  i)aitnLr  was  the  Master  of  Lindsay.  Their  opponents 
were  the  I'.arl  of  Moray,  then  only  Earl  of  Mar,  and  Mar}'  Living- 
ston, whose  skill  is  reported  to  have  been — when  courtesy  allov'ed 
it — ipiite  equal  to  that  of  her  royal  mistress. 

The  next  item  of  information  is  to  be  found  in  the  matter-of-fact 
columns  of  an  account-book,  in  which  we  find  it  entered  that  tlie 
Queen  gave  ^[a^y  Livingston  some  gray  damask  for  a  gown,  in 
Sei>tember  1563,  and  some  black  velvet  for  the  same  purpose,  in  the 
following  r'cbruary.  Shortly  after  this,  however,  there  occurred  an 
event  of  greater  imi)ortance,  which  suj)i)lied  the  letter-writers  of  the 
day  witli  material  for  their  correspondence.  On  the  5th  of  March, 
1564,  ^[ary  Livini^^'ston  was  married  to  John  Sempill,  of  Beltreis.  It 
was  the  first  marriage  amongst  the  Marys,  and  consequently  attracted 
considerable  attention  for  months  before  the  celebration.  As  early 
as  Januar)',  Paul  de  I'oix,  the  French  Ambassador,  makes  allusion  to 
the  approaching  event  :  **  Elle  a  commence  h.  marier  ses  quatre 
Maries,"  he  writes  10  Catharine  de  Medici,  "  et  diet  qu'elle  vcull 
est  re  de  la  bande."  In  a  letter,  dated  the  9th  of  the  same  month, 
Randolph,  faithful  to  his  habit  of  communicating  all  the  gossip  of  the 
court  in  his  reports  to  England,  informs  Bedford  of  the  intended 
marriage  :  **  I  learned  yesterday  that  there  is  a  conspiracy  here 
framed  against  you.  The  matter  is  this :  the  Lord  Sempill's  son, 
being  an  Englishman  born,  shall  be  married  between  this  and  Shrove- 
tide to  the  Lord  Livingston's  sister.  The  Queen,  willing  him  well, 
both  maketh  the  marriage  and  indoweth  the  parties  with  land  To 
do  them  honour  she  will  have  them  marry  in  the  court.  TTie  thing 
ii\tcnded  against  your  lordship  is  this,  that  Sempill  himself  shall 
come  to  Berwicke  within  these  fourteen  days,  and  desire  you  to  be 
at  the  bridal."  Writing  to  Leicester,  he  repeats  his  information: 
•*  It  will  not  bo  above  6  or  7  days  before  the  Queen  (returning 
from  her  progress  into  Fifeshire)  will  be  in  this  town.  Immediately 
after  that  ensueth  the  great  marriage  of  this  happy  Englishman  that 


The  Queens  I\Iarys.  47tl 

lU  many  lovely  IJvingston."  Finally,  on  ihe  41I1  of  Marcli,  he  ' 
un  writes  :  "Divers  of  ihe  noblemen  have  come  to  this  great 
Bniage,  which  lo-monow  sliall  be  celebrated."  Randolph's  episto- 
^  ganulity  has,  in  this  instance,  served  one  good  purpose,  of  which 
probably  little  dreamt  when  lie  filled  his  correspondence  with  the 
all  talk  of  the  court  circle.  It  enables  us  lo  refute  a  calumnious 
BTtion  made  by  John  Knox  witli  reference  to  the  marriage  of  the 
Ken's  maid  of  honour.  "  It  was  weill  knawin  that  schame  haistit 
iriage  betwix  John  Sempill,  callit  tlie  Danser,  and  Marie  Lcving- 
lone,  surnameit  the  Lustie."  Randolph's  first  letler,  showing,  as  it 
MS,  that  preparations  for  the  wedding  were  in  progress  as  early  as 
le  beginning  of  January,  summarily  dismisses  the  charge  of  "  haste  " 
I  its  celebration,  whilst,  for  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  style 
'the  English  envoy's  correspondence,  his  very  silence  will  appear 
ic  strongest  proof  that  Mary's  fair  fame  was  tarnished  by  no  breath 
-scandal  The  birth  of  her  first  child  in  1566,  a  fact  lo  which  the 
Knily  records  of  the  house  of  Sempill  bear  witness,  establishes  more 
Mutably  than  any  argument  the  utter  falsity  of  Knox's  unscrupulous 
ertion. 

John  Sempill,  whose  grace  in  dancing  had  acquired  for  him  the 

which  seems  to  have  lain  so  heavily  on  Knox's  conscience, 

Bd  whose  good  fortune  in  finding  favour  with  lovely  Mary  Livingston 

lUed  forth  Randolph's  congratulations,  was  the  eldest  son  of  the 

Wdlord,  by  his  second  wife  Elizabeth  Cariyle  of  Torthorwold.     At 

'nn,  as  may  have  been  gathered  from   Randolph's  letters,  he  was 

Wwn  as  the  "  Englishman,"  owing  to  the  fact  of  his  having  been 

in  Newcastle.     Although  of  good  family  himself,  and  in  high 

Wur  at  court,  being  but  a  younger  son  he  does  not  seem  to  have 

considered  on  all  hands  as  a  fitting  match  for  Mary  Livingston. 

the  Queen,  of  whose  making  the  marriage  was,  herself  confesses 

a  letter  to  the  Archbishop  of  Gl.isgow,  reminding  him  that,  "  in  a 

lotintry  where  these  formalities  were  looked  lo,"  exception  had  been 

laken  to  the  marriage  both  of  Mary  and   Magdalene  Livingston  on 

he  score  that  they  had  taken  as  husbands  "  the  younger  sons  of  their 

>eers — Us  pu'mH  de  Icun  iemblables."  Mary  Stuart  seems  to  have  been 

bove  such  prejudices,  and  showed  how  heartily  she  approved  of  the 

lliance  between  the  two  families  by  her  liberality  to  the  bride. 

hortly  before  the  marriage  she  gave  her  a  band  covered  with  pearls, 

basquina  of  grey  satin,  a  mantle  of  black  taffety  made  in  the  Spanish 

ishion  witii  silver  buttons,  and  also  a  gown  of  black  taffety. 

lie,  too,  who  furnished  the  bridal  dress,  which  cost  £,jfi,  as  entered 

■the  accounts  under  date  of  the  i  oth  of  March ;— 


1 


472  The  Gcnllcvians  liTagazine. 

Item  :  Anc  piinil  xiii  uncc    of  silver  to  anc  gown  of  Marie  Levingstoaae't  to 
l)cr  manage,  the  unce  xxv  s.     Summa  xxx  li. 

The  "  Inuentair  of  the  Quenis  movables  quhilkis  ar  in  the  handes 
of  Seruais  de  ( 'ondy  vallett  of  chalmcr  to  hir  Grace,"  records,  further, 
that  there  was  **deliueret  in  Merche  1564,  to  Johnne  Semples  wifii 
ane  bed  of  scarlctt  veluot  bordit  with  broderie  of  black  veluot,  fur^ 
nisit  with  ruif  heidpece,  thrc  pandis,  twa  vnderpandis,  thre  curtenis 
of  tafletie  of  tlie  same  cullour  without  freingis.  The  bed  is  fumisit 
with  freingis  of  the  same  cullour."  To  make  her 'gift  complete,  the 
(Jueen,  as  another  household  document,  her  wardrobe  book,  testifies, 
added  the  following  items  :  — 

Iicin  :  IJe  the  said  precept  to  Marie  Levingstoun  xxxielnis  ii  quarters  of 
qiiliitc  fiistiane  to  l>c  ane  marterass,  the  eln  viii  s.     Summa  xii  li  xii  s. 

IicMu  :  xvi  elnis  of  camincs  lo  l>e  palzeass^  the  eln  vi  s.  Suinma  iiij  li  xvj  s. 
Item  :  Kor  n.ippcs  ami  fcdilcr^  ;  v  li. 
Item  :  Ane  cine  of  lane  ;  xxx  s. 
Ilcm  :  ij  unce  of  silk  ;  xx  s. 

The  wedding  for  A\hich  such  elaborate  preparation  had  been  made, 
and  for  which  the  (Jueen  herself  named  the  day,  took  place,  in  the 
] presence  of  the  whole  court  and  all  the  foreign  ambassadors,  on 
Shrove  'I'uesday,  which,  as  has  already  been  mentioned,  was  on  the 
5th  of  March.  In  the  evening  the  wedding  guests  were  entertained 
at  aniasiiuo,  which  was  supplied  by  the  Queen,  but  of  which  we  know 
nothing  further  than  may  be  gathered  from  the  following  entry: — 

Item  :  Tv>  tho  painter  for  the  mask  on  Fastionis  cvin  to  Marie  Levingstoiin's 
maii.ijje  :  xij  li. 

The  marriage  contract,  which  was  signed  at  Ekiinburgh  on  the 
Sunday  preceding  tiie  wedding,  bears  the  names  of  the  Queen,  of 
John  Lord  Krskine,  Patrick  Lord  Ruthven,  and  of  Secretary  Maitkmd 
\>\  I  cthingion.  I'he  bride's  dowry  consisted  of  ;;^5oo  a  year  in  land, 
the  gill  \>i  the  t^Hiecn,  to  which  Lord  Livingston  added  100  merks 
a  \car  in  land,  or  1,000  merks  in  money.  As  a  jointure  she  received 
tho  r»aiony  of  Helircis  near  Castle  Semple,  in  Renfrewshire,  the  lands 
K>{  Auchimanes  and  Calderhaugh,  with  the  rights  of  fisheries  in  the 
r.iKlcr,  taxed  to  ihe  Crown  at  ^.iS  i6j.  S«/.  a  year. 

A  few  ila\  s  after  the  marriage,  on  the  9th  of  March,  a  grant  from 
the  ijueon  to  M.iry  1  ivingston  and  John  Sempill  passed  the  great 
seal.     In  this  oihcial  document  she  stvles  the  bride  "her  familiar 

m 

^cl\aH^^c,'*  and  the  bride^rv^om  **her  daily  and  familiar  serviter, 
dmmg  all  the  >ouih!ioid  and  minority  of  the  s.iid  semters."  Inrecog- 
imion  of  their  services  both  to  herself  and  the  Queen  Re{;enty  she 


Queen's  Mark's. 

'  mfeors  them  in  her  town  and  lands  of  Auctermuclity,  part  of  her  royal 
demesne  in  Fiieshire,  the  lands  and  lordships  of  Stewarton  in  hyr, 
md  ihe  isle  of  Little  Cumbrae  in  the  Forth  of  Clyde. 

After  her  marriage  "  Madamoiselle  de  Semple  "  was  appointed 

I  Wy  of  the  bedchamber,  an  office  for  which  she  received  £'2aa  a 

Her  husband  also  seems  to  have  retained  some  office  which 

I  required  his  personal  attendance  on  the  Queen,  for  we  know  that  both 

husband  and  wife  were  in  waiting  at  Holyrood  on  the  memorable 

'   Wening  of  David  Ri^zio's  murder.      The  shock  which  this  tragic 

event  produced  on  Mary  was  very  great,  and  filled  her  with  the 

I  dirkesi  forebodings,     She  more  than  once  expressed  her  fear  that 

I  slie  would  not  survive  her  approaching  confinement.     About  the  end 

I  of  May  or  the  beginning  of  June,  shortly  before  the  solemn  ceremony 

I  of"  taking  her  chamber,"  she  caused  an  inventory  of  her  personal 

'ffects  to  be  drawn  up  by  Mary  Livingston  and   Margaret  Girwod, 

I  *e  bedchamber  woman  in  charge  of  her  cabinet,  and  with  her  own 

I  liand  wrote,  on  the  margin  opposite  to  each  of  the  several  articles, 

I  "le  name  of  the  person  for  whom  it  was  intended,  in  tiie  event  of  her 

J  "Jfath  and  of  that  of  her  infant     Mary  Livingston's  name  appears  by 

r  ihe  side  of  the  following  objects  in  the  original  document,  which  was 

discovered  among  some  unassorted  law  papers  in  the  Register  House, 

'"August,  1854  : — 

e  vingli  deux  esgMillettes  xliiij   peliltes  dc  mcsme  facon  eBmaillez  de 


Lxvij  piece;  c 


Etillee 


Une  l)rodure  du  tourc 
"eodrons. 

Vac  brodeure  doreillellc  de  pireille  facon 
e  Uanc  et  nolr. 

Vnc  coltoucre  de  setnblable  facon 
•"•tllee  de  blmc  «  noir. 

Vng  caccan  esmaille  de  b[anc  et  n 
P'cce  y  1  vng  petit  pnndant. 

Vne  chesne  a.  saindrc  de  scmlitable  facon  contcninte  liiij  pli 
''Unc  el  noit  et  vng  vaie  au  boul. 

Vnc  corfe  de  coural  conieninle  Ixiij  pieces  faicles  en  vaie. 

Vne  aultte  eorde  de  coural  contenante  ireiie  Etojses  pieces  outsy  en  vaie, 

Vng  aultre  coide  dc  couial  contenanlc  xxjcviij  pieches  plus  petittes  nussy 


Ix  pieces  de  parcille  facon  et- 

diuept  pieces  et  a  chacune 

esmaillees  de 


Vnc  teste  de  palenosli 


il  a  ncuf  meures  de  perle*  el  des  grains  dai^jent 

de  peiles  gamie  bleu  et  grsias  noir  faicl  a  lois- 

Ilem  :  htill  acouilrcmcnt  of  gold  of  couler  circan  and  cbesne  of  66  pfecis. 

Only  on  one  occasion  after  this  do  we  find  mention  of  Mary 
L*«iving5ton  in  connection  with  her  royal  mistress.     It  is  on  the  day 


I       follovin; 
r       backai 


Th*  Gattletfia^rW^!!^ 


following  the  Qoeen's  surrcDder  at  Carberr>',  when  she  was  brought 
back  a  prisoner  to  Edinbu^h.  The  scene  is  described  by  Du  Croc, 
the  French  ambassador.  "  On  the  evening  of  the  next  day,"  he 
writes  in  the  official  report  forirarded  to  his  court,  "at  eight  o'docl;, 
the  Queen  was  brought  back  to  the  castle  of  Holjrood,  escorted  by 
three  hundred  arquebusicrs,  the  Earl  of  Morton  on  the  one  side,Mi) 
the  Earl  of  Athole  on  the  other ;  she  was  on  foot,  though  two  Iwdis 
were  led  in  front  of  her ;  she  was  accompanied  at  the  lime  by 
Mademoiselle  de  Sempel  and  Seton,  witli  others  of  her  chamber.and 
was  dressed  in  a  night-gon-n  of  various  colours." 

After  (he  Queen's  removal  from  Edinbuigh  the  Scmpills  also  left 
it  to  reside  sometimes  at  Beltrcis,  and  sometimes  at  Auchtcrmuch^, 
but  chiefly  in  Paisley,  where  they  built  a  house  which  was  stiD  lo 
be  seen  but  a  few  years  ago,  near  what  is  now  the  Cross.  Theii 
retirement  from  the  capital  did  not,  however,  secure  for  thera  the 
(juiciness  which  they  expected  lo  enjoy.  They  had  stood  too  high 
in  favour  with  the  captive  Queen  to  be  overlooked  by  her  enemies. 
The  Regent  Lennox,  remembering  that  Mary  Livingston  had  been 
intrusted  with  the  care  of  the  royal  jewels  and  wardrobe,  accused  bd 
of  having  some  of  the  Queen's  effects  iu  her  possession.  Notwith- 
standing her  denial,  her  husband  was  arrested  and  cast  into  priso«*t 
and  she  herself  brought  before  the  Lords  of  the  Privy  CounciL  Hwi' 
cross-questioning  and  brow-beating  failed  to  elicit  any  infonnatioB 
from  her,  and  it  was  only  when  Lennox  threatened  to  "put  her  to 
the  hom,"and  to  inflict  the  torture  of  the  "boot"  on  hcrhusbuidt 
that  she  confessed  to  the  possession  of  "  three  lang-tailil  goiros 
garnished  with  fur  of  marlrix  andfur  of  sables."  She  protested,  hoW 
ever,  that,  as  was  indeed  highly  probable,  these  had  been  gvren  W 
her,  and  were  but  cast-off  garments,  of  little  value  or  use  lo  any  OOC- 
In  spite  of  this,  she  was  not  allowed  to  depart  until  she  hadffvC 
surety  "  that  she  would  compear  in  the  council-chamber  on  the 
morrow  and  surrender  the  gear." 

Lennox's  death,  which  occurred  shortly  after  this,  did  noipu' 
an  end  to  the  persecution  to  which  the  Sempills  were  sobjecied- 
Morton  was  as  little  friendly  lo  them  as  his  predecessor  had  b«t 
He  soon  gave  proof  of  this  by  calling  upon  John  Sempill  to  lea«  lii* 
family  and  to  proceed  to  England,  as  one  of  the  hostages  demawiN 
as  security  for  the  return  of  the  army  and  implements  of  war,  seal 
under  Sir  William  Drury,  to  lay  siege  to  Edinburgh  Castle. 

On  his  return  home,  Sempill  found  new  and  worse  troiiW^ 
awaiting  him.  It  happened  that  of  the  lands  conferred  upon  MsO* 
Livingston  on  her  marriage  some  portion  lay  near  one  of  Moriw^ 


The  Queens  Marys,  475 

estates.  Not  only  had  the  Queen's  gift  been  made  by  a  special 
grant  under  the  Great  and  Privy  Seals,  but  the  charter  of  infeofment 
had  also  been  ratified  by  a  further  Act  of  Parliament  in  1567,  when 
it  was  found  that  the  proposal  to  annul  the  forfeiture  of  George  Earl 
of  Huntly  would  affect  it  It  seemed  difficult,  therefore,  to  find  even 
a  legal  flaw  that  would  avail  to  deprive  the  Sempills  of  their  lands 
and  afford  the  Regent  an  opportunity  of  appropriating  them  to  himself. 
He  was  probably  too  powerful,  however,  to  care  greatly  for  the 
justice  of  his  plea.  He  brought  the  matter  before  the  Court  of 
Session,  urging  that  the  gift  made  by  the  Queen  to  Mary  Livingston 
and  her  husband  was  null  and  void,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  illegal 
lo  alienate  the  lands  of  the  Crown.  It  was  in  vain  that  Sempill 
brought  forward  the  deed  of  gift  under  the  Great  and  Privy  Seals, 
the  judges  would  not  allow  his  plea.  Thereupon  Sempill  burst  into 
a  violent  passion,  declaring  that  if  he  lost  his  suit,  it  would  cost  him 
his  life  as  well.  Whiteford  of  Milntoune,  a  near  relative  of  Sempill's, 
who  was  with  him  at  the  time,  likewise  allowed  his  temper  to  get  the 
better  of  his  discretion,  and  exclaimed  "  that  Nero  was  but  a  dwarf 
compared  to  Morton."  This  remark,  all  the  more  stinging  that  it 
was  looked  upon  as  a  sneer  at  the  Regent's  low  stature,  was  never 
forgiven.  Not  long  after  the  conclusion  of  the  lawsuit,  both  Sempill 
and  ^Vhiteford  were  thrown  into  prison  on  a  charge  "  of  having  con- 
spired against  the  Regent's  life,  and  of  having  laid  in  wait  by  the 
Kirk,  within  the  Kirkland  of  Paisley,  to  have  shot  him,  in  the  month 
of  January,  1575,  at  the  instigation  of  the  Lords  Claud  and  John 
Hamilton.*'  After  having  been  detained  in  prison  till  1577,  John 
Sempill  was  brought  up  for  trial  on  this  capital  charge.  His  alleged 
crime  being  of  such  a  nature  that  it  was  probably  found  impossible 
to  prove  it  by  the  testimony  of  witnesses,  he  was  put  to  the  torture 
of  the  boot,  with  which  he  had  been  threatened  on  a  former  occasion. 
By  this  means,  sufficient  was  extorted  from  him  to  give  at  least  a 
semblance  of  justice  to  the  sentence  of  death  which  was  passed  on 
him.  In  consideration  of  this  confession,  however,  the  sentence  was 
not  carried  out  Ultimately,  he  was  set  at  liberty  and  restored  to 
his  family.  His  health  had  completely  broken  down  under  the 
terrible  ordeal  through  which  he  had  gone,  and  he  only  lingered  on 
till  the  25th  of  April,  1579. 

Of  Mary  Livingston's  life  afler  the  death  of  her  husband,  but 
little  is  known.  From  an  Act  of  Parliament  passed  in  November, 
1 581,  it  appears  that  tardy  justice  was  done  her  by  James  VI.,  who 
caused  the  grants  formerly  made  to  "umquhile  John  Semple,  of 
Butress,  and  his  spouse,  to  be  ratified."     Her  eldest  son,  James,  was 


4/6  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

brought  up  with  James  VI.,  and  in  later  life  was  sent  as  ambassador 
to  England.  He  was  knighted  in  i6oi.  There  were  three  other 
children — two  boys,  Arthur  and  John,  and  one  girl,  Dorothie. 

The  exact  date  of  Mary  Livingston's  death  is  not  known,  but 
she  appears  to  have  been  living  in  1592. 


IV. 

The  family  to  which  Mar)'  Betop,  or,  as  she  herself  signed  her 

name,   Marie  Bethune,  belonged,  seems   to  have   been  peculiariy 

devoted  to  the  ser\  ice  of  the  house  of  Stuart     Her  father,  Robert 

Beton,  of  Creich,  is  mentioned  amongst  the  noblemen  and  gentlemen 

who  sailed  from  Dunbarton  with  the  infant  Queen,  in  1548,  and  who 

accompanied  her  in  1561,  when  she  returned  to  take  possession  of 

the  Scottish  throne.     His  office  was  that  of  one  of  the  Masters  of 

the  Household,  and,  as  such,  he  was  in  attendance  at  Holyrood 

when  the  murderers  of  Rizzio  burst  into  the  queen's  chamber  and 

stabl>ed  him  before  her  eyes.     He  also  appears  under  the  style  of 

Kcei>er  of  the  Royal  Palace  of  Falkland,  and  Steward  of  the  Queen's 

Rents  in  Fife.     At  his  death,  which  occurred  in  1567,  he  recommends 

his  wife  and  chiklren  to  the  care  of  the  Queen,  "that  scho  be  haill 

mantenare  of  my  hous  as  my  houpe  is  in  hir  Maiestie  under  God." 

His  grandfather,   the  founder  of  the  house,  was  comptroller  and 

treasurer  to  King  lames  IV.     His  aunt  was  one  of  the  ladies  of  the 

court  of  King  James  V.,  by  whom  she  was  the  mother  of  the  Countess 

of  Argyll.     One  of  his  sisters,  the  wife  of  Arthur  Forbes  of  Reies, 

stood  in  high  favour  with  Queen  Mary,  and  was  wet-nurse  to  James  VI. 

His  French  wife,  Jehanne  de  la  Runuelle,  and  two  of  his  daughters, 

>\cre  ladies  of  honour. 

iM'  the  four  Mar}s,  Mar>-  Bcion  has  left  least  trace  in  the  history 
of  the  lime.  It  seems  to  have  been  her  good  fortune  to  be  wholly 
unconnected  wiih  Uie  ix)litical  events  which,  in  one  way  or  another, 
dragjiCvi  her  fair  colaagues  into  their  vortex,  and  it  may  be  looked 
upon  as  a  proof  of  tlie  happiness  of  her  life,  as  compared  with  their 
eventful  careers,  that  she  has  but  liide  historj*. 

riuMiiih  but  few  materials  remain  to  enable  us  to  reconstruct  the 
stv>rv  of  Marv  Bcton*s  life,  a  fonunate  chance  gives  us  the  means  of 
iudiiiuij  of  ihe  truth  of  the  high-iiOwn  compliments  paid  to  her  beauty 
by  Ivih  Randolph  and  Buchanan.  A  i>ortrail  of  her  is  still  shown 
AX  lUlKn:r  House,  in  Fife.  It  represents,  we  are  told,  "a  very  fair 
Kaulv,  \Mlh  *iark  eyes  and  yellow  hair."  and  is  said  to  justify  all  that 
has  bvcn  wuuon  in  praise  o:"  her  personal  charms.    The  first  to  fall 


I 


*  viciim  to  ibese  was  the  English  envoy,  Randolph. 
*o  the  Earl  of  Bedford,  writlen  in  April,  1565,  mentions,  as  an  im- 
portant fact,  Ihal  Mistress  Belon  and  he  had  lately  played  a  game  at 
biles  against  the  Queen  and  Darnley,  that  they  had  been  successful 
against  their  royal  opponents,  and  that  Darnley  had  paid  the  stakes. 
In  another  letter,  written  to  Leicester,  he  thinks  it  worthy  of  special 
record  that  for  four  days  he  had  sat  next  her  at  the  Queen's  table,  at 
St,  Andrews.  "  I  was  willed  to  be  at  my  ordinary  table,  and  being 
placed  the  next  person,  saving  worthy  Belon,  to  the  Queen  herself." 
Writing  to  the  same  nobleman  he  makes  a  comparison  between  her 
and  Mary  Fleming,  of  whom,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  drawn  so 
glowing  a  description,  and  declares  that,  "  if  Beton  had  lyked  so 
short  a  time,  so  worthie  a  rownie,  Flemyng  to  her  by  good  right 
should  have  given  place."  Knowing,  as  we  do,  from  ihf;  testimony 
of  other  letters,  how  prone  Randolph  was  to  overrate  his  personal 
inQuence,  and  with  what  amusing  self-conceit  he  claimed  for  himself 
'he  special  favours  of  the  ladies  of  the  Scottish  court,  there  is  every 
reason  to  suspect  the  veracity  of  the  statement  contained  in  the 
following  extract  from  a  letter  to  Sir  Henry  Sidney  :  "  I  doubt  myself 
whether  I  be  the  self-same  man  that  now  will  be  content  with  the 
Danie  of  your  countryman,  that  have  the  whole  guiding,  the  giving, 
Mid  bestowing,  not  only  of  the  Queen,  and  her  kingdom,  but  of  the 
taosl  worthy  Beton,  to  be  ordered  and  ruled  at  mine  own  will." 

Like  her  colleague,  Mary  Fleming,  "  the  most  worthy  Beton  "  had 
her  hour  of  mock  royalty,  as  we  learn  from  three  sets  of  verses  in 
"■hith  Buchanan  extols  her  beauty,  worth,  and  accomphshments,  and 
wliich  are  inscribed:  "Ad  Mariam  Betooam  j^ridie  Regalium 
^^g'nam  sorte  ductam."  In  the  first  of  these,  which  bears  some 
•"^sernblance  to  that  addressed  to  Mary  Fleming  on  a  similar 
"•-^^asion,  he  asserts,  with  poetical  enthusiasm,  the  mimic  sovereign's 
'^^l  claims  to  the  high  dignity  which  Fortune  has  tardily  conferred 
"l^n  her:- 

Thy  mind  and  verlue  princely  ;  beauly  fhir 

May  well  unlo  a  diadem  be  heir ; 

Futlune,  ashsm'd  her  gifts  should  wnnling  be. 

Sent  wcallh  and  riches  in  good  store  to  thee  ; 

And,  when  had  honoured  ihce,  without  *11  hate, 

Ilei  long  delay  she  could  not  expiate. 

Unless  that  Queen,  deserving  earth's  empire, 

Subjection  to  Ihy  scepler  should  desire. 

*»i  his  next  effusion  the  poet  rises  to  a  more  passionate  height  in 
**-^rairation.     It  is  such  as  we  might  imagine  Randolph  to  hav£ 


S  T/ic  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


ivj!iiicd  \\\  \\U  tntlvjsiasm.  could  we,  by  any  flight  of  fancy,  suppose 
h::ii  c.iT-.iMo  of  such  scholarly  verses  as  those  of  Buchanan. 

Sh  'Ui  i  I  r-'mplain?  Or  should  I  Fortune  praise? 
T  ■  lici.'n  f.i".r  wh  1  m.ikcs  me  slave  always  ; 
•  •.  I'ciuiy  ai  tliis  liinj,  what  need  I  ihee? 
Wh^-n  :■..■  h'-;  c<  aro  uf  mutual  love  for  me. 
If  r.  rf..:;j  h.vl  :>i.cn  kiiul,  in  youthful  prime, 
Ar.  i  ".:-.'  ai.iv.incM  lo  hon>nir  so  sublime  ; 
I  -     n  h::.i  iiirn'-l  to  lUiNt.  an-J  my  short  day 
11.:  i  \  con  imali  pain,  aliho*  it  would  not  stay  ; 
N   \\  I:r.;'r:n^  Tiles  torment  ;  I  want  life's  joy, 
A-'.i  -'.:.:  i.n  ItJi'h  wore  plca^ire,  not  annoy  : 
iv.  . :•.*:■>:  ciso.  i:">  all  my  comfort  still, 
M>  *.:j  in  i   !-.::rh  is  at  my  Lady's  will, 

r.u  :'  :J  e:  i.;rA:ii  i<  more  particularly  interesting,  as  bearing 
TvUTv ,•.■>.  ^^o  i:;ink.  :o  Mary  Beton's  literar}'  tastes  : — 

\  V!  ;  w  .  : .:  :;    a  ».t>  x'.\\  ilclas  holds  lx>und  ;  no  wlicrc 
».  '.■    I  -.r.  i  ■.-:.  >-'g"y  for  my  Lady  rare  ; 
^ '. .  "'..-:.     • . :  V  :"ru . ;  ;V.I  t^n.r -.  I  en,  no  w  1  >  v  v  cars 
.".'.vv  :  .>.  ar  '.  V.-.rren  w:r»:':r  Invars  : 
'.  c.  ■  ;:'.  r»t:  :.'>  ^ile  !  ut  once  me  i«>uch, 
^   :.-j;  -.r.  ':  ::  *.!:>>•..-. -,5  ill  were  r.'nihinjj  such. 

I  c  «:.!  drawn  »:■  by  N[ar>  Siuart,  in  1566,  which,  it  is  true, 
v..'\.-r  :o  k  c::\v:.  <;;c":s  10  point  to  Marj-  Beton  as  the  most 
Sv'u'..'.-\  .:.vvv:^<;  :;'.c  !v..i\:s  o:"  honour.  It  is  to  her  that  the  French, 
F:\:'>>.  '.'ad  1:.....::  Vo.xs  :::  ::.e  royal  collection  are  bequeathed ; 
i*\'  v\;«A,;'.  a..:* /:-  !  .:-;  reserved  for  the  university  of  St  Andrews, 
\i''s:o  :>v^  «N-  i  •.:.r.,;vd  :o  forra  the  nucleus  of  a  library:  "Jc 
uix-N.*  v.'.s  '.  .:.<  .  .:'.  y  >or.:  01  Grec  ou  I^tin  c\  runiveisite' de 
S  ■'.,  ':'v*:n\  :  o.-:  >  .\  ••.■.".v\\;r  v.r.e  bible.     Les  aultres  ie  les  la>-ssea 

r"..N  ;>  :.  •.  .:  V.::..  .u:  1;.  t'.e  fact  that,  many  years  later, 
\\  .:  .,v.r.  •  V  x ..:,  >.\  TvM  V  :  -  v^\  .- :;  Anne  of  Denmark,  wife  of  James 
\  \  .  dx\  -'//,.' d  ■.  >  "  1  .:r.x::r.;.::o.:r»  of  the  cesolat  Olympia,  furth  of 
iV..'  i.-.v."'  vav.::  .^"  A:  .>:.^  "to  :he  ri-ht  honourable  ladye  Mai}-e 
\v  ;v\..\  I  ■-■N-'  r.  ./xT,  ■  i.^f  :*..c  :;:erar\-  accomplishments  which  may 
ta.;'\  Vo  ::  .v'.cd  .v:"  ::..^o  v  :rcv.:v.>:ar.ces,  we  have,  however,  no 
1;:^;^'.  :v\/  Nv  :"•  :  ..  c:  M.iry  r;;:on*s  has  come  down  to  us, 
,\. .;  ,  .  U,,v\  a;.»:v>s.d  *:  y  lur  ::;  Jane,  1563,  to  the  wife  of  Sir 
N..V.oV.^  i  ''.o/v:v..:.v".  a\V.v^<o  a.M;aa:ntance  she  may  have  made 
^ii*M  \'.\  r-./.^v"  v'.  •.'".  ^v'of.and,  i^T  Nicholas  having  been  English 
,v\'.lM'^v,KUn  ;:\  l\:'i  ^oar.:r:CN  In  ihis  short  document  the  writer 
,u  VuxMvUxl^^v-  ;>o  tvvvii^;  o:'  a  rir.^,  as^ar^s  the  giver  that  she  will 


The  Queens  Marys.  479 

endeavour  to  return  her  love  by  iraking  her  commendations  to  the 
Queen,  and  b^gs  her  acceptance  in  return,  and  as  a  token  of  their 
good  love  and  amity,  of  a  little  ring  which  she  has  been  accustomed 
to  wear  daily. 

In  the  month  of  May,  1566,  Mary  Beton  married  Alexander 
Ogilvie,  of  Boyne.  But  little  is  known  of  this  marriage  beyond  the 
fact  that  the  Queen  named  the  day,  and  beyond  such  circumstances 
of  a  purely  legal  and  technical  nature  as  may  be  gathered  from  the 
marriage  contract,  which  is  still  extant,  and  has  been  published  in 
the  Miscellany  of  the  Maitland  Club.  It  sets  forth  that  the  bride 
was  to  have  a  dowry  from  her  father  of  3,000  merks,  and  a  jointure 
from  her  husband  of  lands  yielding  150  merks  and  30  chalders  of 
grain  yearly.  This  legal  document  derives  its  chief  interest  from 
bringing  together  in  a  friendly  transaction  persons  who  played  im- 
portant and  hostile  parts  in  the  most  interesting  period  of  Scottish 
history.  It  bears  the  signatures  of  the  Queen  and  Henry  Damley, 
together  with  those  of  the  Earls  of  Huntly,  Argyll,  Bothwell,  Murray, 
and  Atholl,  as  cautioners  for  the  bridegroom,  that  of  Alexander 
Ogilvie  himself,  who  subscribes  his  territorial  style  of  "  Boyne,"  and 
that  of  "  Marie  Bethune."  The  signature  of  the  bride's  father,  and 
that  of  Michael  Balfour,  of  Burleigh,  his  .cautioner  for  payment  of  his 
daughter's  tocher,  are  wanting. 

It  would  appear  that  Mary  Beton,  or,  as  she  was  usually  called 
after  her  marriage,  "  the  Lady  Boyn,"  or  "  Madame  de  Boyn,"  did 
not  immediately  retire  from  the  court.  In  what  capacity,  however, 
she  kept  up  her  connection  with  it,  cannot  be  ascertained.  All  that 
we  have  been  able  to  discover  is  that  after  her  marriage  she  received 
several  gifts  of  ornaments  and  robes  from  the  Queen.  Amongst  the 
latter  we  notice  a  dress  which  was  scarcely  calculated  to  suit  the  fair 
beauty:  "  Une  robbe  de  satin  jeaulne  dore  toute  goffree  faicte  a 
manches  longues  toute  chamaree  de  bisette  d'argent  bordee  dung 
passement  geaulne  goffre  dargent! " 

Both  Mary  Beton  and  Alexander  Ogilvie  are  said  to  have  been 
living  as  late  as  i6o6.  All  that  is  known  as  to  the  date  of  her  death 
is  that  it  occurred  before  that  of  her  husband,  who,  in  his  old  age, 
married  the  divorced  wife  of  Bothwell,  the  Countess  Dowager  of 
Sutherland. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  the  contrast  between  the  comparatively 
uneventful  reality  of  Mary  Beton's  life  and  the  romantic  career 
assigned  to  her  in  the  latest  work  of  fiction,  which  introduces  her  in 
connection  with  her  royal  and  ill-fated  mistress.  In  Mr.  Swinburne's 
"  Mary  Stuart,"  the  catastrophe  is  brought  about  by  Mary  Beton. 


;-■.:■  rivi  b-tsMaed  her 'ii::- 
T  '.  ".-rt.'.-r:.  -a her.  her  eves 
..  :  - :    w : :;.!.    Man-  Beton. 


V   .  .  .  a  ■  g       I        I 

*  ■  -         •      ,1         ••--1^      r.   •r-Tl 

■-.-    --._..:  j-jiiris:  her  rival, 
:  -  -    :  •  i:  »!'  -.25:-jhr.]'s  deiin  a 

■  7 1 : :  r. : . : j.1  2 1  -=  urdi'.y  to  nad 
-     J.-  :..ii=  '.f  achanacr 

?^'  -   - ".':. ■_!;.-?.  a>  i:  is  oi'iei 
. "        - : ".  ■_    : :'  :h e  m i r. or  cha- 

■  :.-..-  --:;.■:;  rjijcr^rosscd 
-:  .  :r:r!j;: j?  ••f  oi;.Io- 
.    .  "  :  ^".^r.::.  n  to  I>cStow— 

.:  ■:   :  ■    •    .:::  O'-t  how  l:t:le 
'.  .: .".    L.'  r..-:!'.  :::\;  -riJ  the 


I    :-  '^--rrjii     M-r:e  IMcri?,  ane 

--.i  ■'.-.:-.  ^..-^nc  Marie,  dochtcr 

.  r.  r.'..f  :.r. ^Ane  Jc'ch ter    .    .   . 

:   :"-.--.   ^:    Richard   Maitland's 

.:-  _f '.':..  •artrit.i.c  of  the  founh 

:  .:'..:    .:^ J  in  which  lovaltvand 

l-rke>i  ]uj:cs  of  iheir 

,:.;r.u  .^.mon::>t  those  of  the 

...:--'.:  r.::  frighten  nor  promises 

,      :.      !"  :    ^  :l-«:  ect  Mar\*  Selon's  French 

-    .  .    ,       -.  :   .   :  r.     .   ir.:."'  which  she  was  received.    At 

'     -  :  -.  'c':.  r..  I  :.r.:e  Vxtis  transferrcvi  notonlvher 

-     ■:     ..  ..  j..  :;   :': .:  irfun:  Qucen,  and  stood  by  her 

.   ..  •    '..:  J.:  :::..;.     :*  the  ir.ost  tning  circumstances uf 

.-      -.   -    . -.     r.ir.^  ?c'.  LrL.i:n.  The  deposition  of  French  Paris 

.  .  ..^    .-■■-;.  c:"  her.  r-itcnJing  on  Mar}'  and  conferring  secretly 

;  .V  ;    ..  r..     --.  .--e  mc mine  after  the  King's  murder.     At  a  later 

-■••  T.e'^nd  huT  ror.spiring  wirh  the  Queen's  friends  at  what  n-as 

k-^/«r.  as  the  council  '*of  the  witches  of  Atholl,"  and  subsequently 


The  Queens  Marys.  481 

imprisoned,  with  her  son,  for  having  too  freely  expressed  her  loyalty 
to  her  mistress.  We  may,  therefore,  almost  look  upon  it  as  the 
natural  result  of  Mary  Seton's  training,  and  of  her  family  associations, 
that  she  is  pre-eminently  the  Queen's  companion  in  adversity.  It 
seems  characteristic  of  this  that  no  individual  mention  occurs  of  her 
as  bearing  any  part  in  the  festivities  of  the  court,  or  sharing  her 
mistress's  amusements.  Her  first  appearance  coincides  with  the  last 
appearance  of  Mary  Livingston  in  connection  with  Mary  Stuart. 
When  the  Queen,  after  her  surrender  at  Carberry,  was  ignominiously 
dragged  in  her  night-dress  through  the  streets  of  her  capital,  her 
faltering  steps  were  supported  by  Mary  Livingston  and  Mary  Seton. 
At  Lochleven  Mary  Seton,  still  in  attendance  on  her  mistress,  bore 
an  important  part  in  her  memorable  flight,  a  part  more  dangerou?, 
perhaps,  than  Jane  Kennedy's  traditional  leap  from  the  window,  for  it 
consisted  in  personating  the  Queen  within  the  castle,  whilst  the  flight 
was  taking  place,  and  left  her  at  the  mercy  of  the  disappointed 
gaolers  when  faithful  Willie  Douglas  had  brought  it  to  a  successful 
issue.  How  she  fared  at  this  critical  moment,  or  how  she  herself  con- 
trived to  regain  her  liberty,  is  not  recorded ;  but  it  is  certain  that 
before  long  she  had  resumed  her  honourable  but  perilous  place  by 
the  side  of  her  royal  mistress.  It  is  scarcely  open  to  doubt  that  the 
one  maid  of  honour  who  stood  with  the  Queen  on  the  eminence 
whence  she  beheld  the  fatal  battle  of  Langside  was  the  faithful 
Mary  Seton. 

Although,  so  far  as  we  have  been  able  to  ascertain,  Mary  Seton's 
name  does  not  occur  amongst  those  of  the  faithful  few  who  fled  with 
the  Queen  from  the  field  of  I-,angside  to  Sanquhar  and  Dundrennan, 
and  although  the  latter  actually  states  in  the  letter  which  she  wrote 
to  the  Cardinal  de  Lorraine,  on  the  21st  of  June,  that  for  three 
nights  after  the  battle  she  had  fled  across  country,  without  being 
accompanied  by  any  female  attendant,  we  need  have  no  hesitation 
in  stating  that  Mary  Seton  must  have  been  amongst  the  eighteen 
who,  when  the  infatuated  Mary  resolved  on  trusting  herself  to  the 
protection  of  Elizabeth,  embarked  with  her  in  a  fishing-smack  at 
Dundrennan,  and  landed  at  Workington.  A  letter  written  by  Sir 
Francis  Knollys  to  Cecil,  on  the  28th  of  June,  makes  particular 
mention  of  Mary  Seton  as  one  of  the  waiting-women  in  attendance 
on  the  Queen,  adding  further  particulars  which  clearly  point  to  the 
fact  that  she  had  been  so  for  at  least  several  days  : — 

Now  here  are  six  waiting-women,  although  none  of  reputation,  but  Mis- 
tress Mary  Seton,  who  is  praised  by  this  Queen  to  be  the  finest  busker,  that  is  to 
iay»  the  finest  dresser  of  a  woman's  head  of  hair,  that  is  to  be  seen  in  any  country 

VOL.  ccLViii.     NO.  1853.  ^-V 


4S2  The  Gentleinans  Magazine. 

whereof  we  have  seen  illvers  cxpciicnces,  since  liec  couing  hiihct.  Am 
other  pretty  devices,  yesterday  and  Ibis  Uay,  she  illd  x\  such  a  curled  hail  npoa 
the  Queen,  that  was  said  to  be  a  percwyke,  that  showed  very  delicately.  Kad 
every  other  dny  she  hath  a  new  device  of  bead-dressing,  without  any  cost,  Ud 
yet  setteth  forth  a  womiui  gaylic  well. 

For  tlie  next  nine  years  Mary  Seton  disappears  almost  entirdyu 
the  monolony  of  her  self-iinposecl  exile  and  captivity.  A  casal 
reference  to  her,  from  time,  to  time,  in  the  Queen's  conespoDdoiov 
is  the  only  sign  we  have  of  her  existence.  Thus,  in  a  letter  wriBO 
from  Chatsworth,  in  1570,  to  the  Archbishop  of  Glasgow,  toinfium 
him  of  the  death  of  his  brother,  John  Beton,  laird  of  Creich,  andln 
request  him  to  send  over  Andrew  Beton  to  act  as  Master  of  tf* 
Household,  Mary  Stuart  incidentally  mentions  her  maid  of  houMt 
in  terms  whicli,  however,  convey  but  little  information  conccmHS 
her,  beyond  that  of  her  continued  devotion  to  her  mistress  and  btt 
affection  for  her  mistress's  friends.  "  Vous  avez  une  aniye  en  Sttou,'' 
so  the  Queen  writes,  "qui  sera  aussi  satisfayte,  en  votre  absencepih 
vous  servir  de  bonne  amye  que  parenle  ou  aultre  que  puissiei  awt 
aupres  de  nioy,  pour  I'aiTection  quelle  porte  k  tous  ctulx  qu'eUecofr 
nait  m'avoyr  estc  fidHes  serviteurs." 

The  roynl  prisoner's  correspondence'  for  the  year  i574givesU 
another  glimpse  of  her  faithful  attendant,  "  qui  tous  les  joius  w 
fayct  service  trcs  ngreable,"  and  for  whom  the  Archbishop  is  requeslsl 
to  send  over  from  Paris  a  watch  and  alarum.  "  La  monstre  qMJ* 
demande  est  pour  Seton.  Si  n'en  pouvez  troiiver  une  (aite,  fciwl' 
faire,  simple  et  juste,  suyvant  mon  premier  mt-moyre,  avec  le  revei- 
matin  \  part." 

Three  years  must  again  elapse  before  Marj*  Seton's  next  »ppC' 
ance.  On  this  occasion,  however,  in  1577,  she  assumes  speO'' 
importance,  and  figures  as  the  chief  character  in  a  romantic  lii'l' 
drama  which  Mary  Stuart  herself  has  sketched  for  us  in  two  WIP* 
written  from  her  prison  in  Sheffield  to  Archbishop  Beton. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  when,  in  1570,  death  deprived QuW 
Mary  of  the  services  of  John  Beton,  her  Master  of  the  Housebo'A 
she  requested  that  his  younger  brotlier  should  be  sent  over  from  PlP* 
to  supply  his  place,  fn  due  time  Andrew  Beton  appeared  at  Sbefe" 
and  entered  upon  his  honourable  but  profidess  duties.  He  ■** 
necessarily  brought  into  daily  contact  with  Mary  Selon,  for  whom  f" 
soon  formed  a  strong  affection,  and  whom  he  sought  in  miWSS^ 
The  maid  of  honour,  a  daughter  of  the  proud  house  of  WinioDp  ^'^^ 
not  appear  to  have  felt  flattered  by  the  attentions  of  Beton,  «'"'' 
though  "  de  fort  bonne  maison,"  according  to  Brantoroe,  was  but ''" 


The  Queens  Marys,  483 

younger  son  of  a  younger  son.  Despairing  of  success  on  his  own 
merits,  Andrew  Beton  at  last  wrote  to  his  brother,  the  Archbishop, 
requesting  him  to  engage  their  royal  mistress's  influence  in  furtherance 
of  his  suit.  The  Queen,  with  whom,  as  we  know,  match-making  was 
an  amiable  weakness,  accepted  the  part  offered  her,  and  the  result  of 
her  negotiations  is  best  explained  by  her  own  letter  to  the  Arch- 
bishop : — 

According  to  the  promise  conveyed  to  you  in  my  last  letter,  I  have,  on  three 
several  occasions,  spoken  to  my  maid.  After  raising  several  objections  based  on 
the  respect  due  to  the  honour  of  her  house — according  to  the  custom  of  my 
country^but  more  particularly  on  the  vow  which  she  alleges,  and  which  she 
maintains,  can  neither  licitly  nor  honourably  be  broken,  she  has  at  last  yielded  to 
my  remonstrances  and  earnest  persuasions,  and  dutifully  submitted  to  my  com- 
maods,  as  being  those  of  a  good  mistress  and  of  one  who  stands  to  her  in  the 
place  of  a  mother,  trusting  that  I  shall  have  due  consideration  both  for  her  repu- 
tation and  for  the  confidence  which  she  has  placed  in  me.  Therefore,  being 
anxious  to  gratify  you  in  so  good  an  object,  I  have  taken  it  upon  myself  to  obtain 
for  her  a  dispensation  from  her  alleged  vow,  which  I  hold  to  be  null.  If  the 
opinion  of  theologians  should  prove  to  coincide  with  mine  in  this  matter,  it  shall 
be  my  care  to  see  to  the  rest.  In  doing  so,  however,  I  shall  change  characters, 
for,  as  she  has  confidently  placed  herself  in  my  hands,  I  shall  have  to  represent 
not  your  interests,  but  hers.  Now,  as  regards  the  first  point,  our  man,  whom  I 
called  into  our  presence,  volunteered  a  little  rashly,  considering  the  difKculties 
which  will  arise,  to  undertake  the  journey  himself,  to  bring  back  the  dispensation, 
after  having  consulted  with  you  as  to  the  proper  steps  to  be  taken,  and  to  be  with 
us  again  within  three  months,  bringing  you  with  hioL  I  shall  request  a  past>port 
for  him  ;  do  you,  on  your  part,  use  your  best  endeavours  for  him ;  they  will 
be  needed,  considering  the  circumstances  under  which  I  am  placed.  Further- 
more, it  will  be  necessary  to  write  to  the  dnimscrs  brother,  to  know  how  far  he 
thinks  I  may  go  without  appearing  to  give  too  little  weight  to  the  difference  of 
degree  and  title.  * 

After  having  penned  this  interesting  and  well-meaning  epistle, 
the  Queen  communicated  it  to  Mary  Seton,  to  whom,  however,  it  did 
not  appear  a  fair  statement  of  the  case,  and  for  whose  satisfaction  a 
postscript  was  added : — 

I  have  shown  the  above  to  the  maiden,  and  she  accuses  me  of  over-partiality 
in  this,  that  for  shortness*  sake,  I  have  omitted  some  of  the  circumstances  of  her 
dutiful  submission  to  me,  in  making  which  she  still  entertained  a  hope  that  some 
r^ard  should  be  had  for  her  vow,  even  though  it  prove  to  be  null,  and  that  her 
indination  should  also  be  consulted,  which  has  long  been,  and  more  especially 
since  our  captivity,  rather  in  favour  of  remaining  in  her  present  state  than  of 
entering  that  of  marriage.  I  have  promised  her  to  set  this  before  you,  and  to  give 
it,  myself,  that  consideration  which  is  due  to  her  confidence  in  me.  Furthermore, 
- 1  have  assured  her  that,  should  I  be  led  to  persuade  her  to  enter  into  that  slate 
which  is  least  agreeable  to  her,  it  would  only  be  because  my  conscience  told  me 

*  The  original  is  written  in  French, 

L  L  2 


^^4 


The  GtntUmans  Magazine. 


'<•_-*■; 


-.  .    *:.    \r\  ••VM  '.  '   -r-.   :.r.  1  :hi:  ihcrc  wis  nc»  dinger  of  the  least  bhiu 

-^'  :.:•.--.>.  ci  :  -  ':.t:.     '•■.t  — ^Ites  2  £'".1  voin:  of  ihe  diiparity  of  rank  aad 

-:-.  :.-. :  ~  t-.!.  r.'  :-.  r.;  r-i-r  :•:'  :r.:*:hi:  she  hear<i  faalt  fvund  with  themaniage 

:ir  j>:tr?  Ll..:;^:.-.  r-.trely  f.r  hjLTinz  wcdied   the  yoanger  sons  of  thdr 

ir.    s*--*  frir-  '.r-i:.  :r.  .i  c.-.-trr  where  rjch  formal iiies  arc  obserred/her 

.nr.  fr.tr.ij  r.iy  :.i\e  1  .-ir.^ij  opinion  of  her.     Kut,   a>  ihc  Qaeen  of  both  of 

■.Mz:.  I  h-i-.t  ■_:.  I-.rLikt-  :-    ii-.n:c  the  whole  responsibility,  and  to  do  all  thai 

:.  ;.  ;  r.--'!  ..-:-t?-2-:'.-  -*'.\\  ill.»,  !•.<  make  malt cr>  smooth.      Voa  need,  there- 

f.  rr.  '.iVe  r.    :*_r.r.e:  tr  jl!c  ab;  -:  :hl>,  bvy-jml  getting  her  brother  to  let  as  know 

^v;:h  :.:^  mi- tress's  good  wishes,  and  with  innumerable  commis- 
sior.s   fr>ni   her    ladies,   Andrew   Beton    set   out  on   his  mission. 
ANhethe:  the  dispensation  was  less  easy  to  obtain  than  he  at  first 
fancied,  or  wheiher  other  circumstances,  perhaps  of  a  political  nature, 
arose  10  delay  him,  twice  the  three  months  within  which  he  had 
undertaken  to  return  to  .Shctneld  had  elapsed  before  information  of 
his  homeward  journey  was  received.     He  had  been   successful  in 
obtaining  a  theological  opinion  favourable  to  his  suit,  but  it  appeared 
that  Mar)-  Seton's  objections  to  matrimony  were  not  to  be  removd 
with  her  vow.     This  seems  to  be  the  meaning  of  a  letter  written  to 
Beton  by  Mar)*  Stuart,  in   which,  after  telling  him   that  she  will 
postpone  the  discussion  of  his  affairs  till  his  return,  she  pointedly 
adds  that  Mary  Seton's  letters  to  him  must  have  sufficiently  informed 
him  as  to  her  decision,  and  that  she  herself,  though  willing  to  help 
him  by  showing  her  hearty  approval  of  the  match,  could  give  no 
actual  commands  in  the  matter.     A  similar  letter  to  the  Archbishop 
seems  to  point  to  a  belief  on  Mar)''s  part  that,  in  spite  of  the  dispen- 
sation, the  match  would  never  be  concluded,  and  that  Beton  would 
meet  with  a  bitter  disappointment  on  his  return  to  Shefheld.     It  was 
destined,  ho\^  ever,  that  he  should  never  again  behold  either  his  royal 
lady  or  her  for  whom  he  had  undertaken  the  journey.     He  died  on 
his  way  homewards ;   but  wc  have  no  knowledge  where  or  under 
what  circumstances.     The  first  intimation  of  the  event  is  contained, 
as  are,  indeed,  most  of  the  details  belonging  to  this  period,  in  the 
Queen's  correspondence.     In  a  letter  bearing  the  date  of  the  5th  of 
November  she  expresses  to  the  Archbishop  her  regret  at  the  failure 
of  her  project  to  unite  the  Betons  and  the  Setons,  as  well  as  at  the 
personal  loss  she  has  sustained  by  the  death  of  a  faithful  subject  and 
servant. 

With  this  episode  our  knowledge  of  Mary  Seton's  history  is  nearly 

exhausted.     There  is  no  further  reference  to  her  in  the  correspond- 

Qce  of  the  next  six  years,  during  which  she  continued  to  share  her 

lueen's  captivity.     About  the  year  1583,  when  her  own  health  had 


The  Queens  Marys.  485 

broken  down  under  the  hardships  to  which  she  was  subjected  in  the 
various  prisons  to  which  she  followed  Mary  Stuart,  she  begged  and 
obtained  permission  to  retire  to  France.  The  remainder  of  her  life 
was  spent  in  the  seclusion  of  the  abbey  of  St  Peter's,  at  Rheims, 
over  which  Ren^e  de  Lorraine,  the  Queen's  maternal  aunt,  presided. 
The  last  memorial  which  we  have  of  Mary  Seton  is  a  touching 
proof  of  the  affection  which  she  still  bore  her  hapless  Queen,  and 
of  the  interest  with  which,  from  her  convent  cell,  she  still  followed 
the  course  of  events.  It  is  a  letter,  written  in  October,  1586,  to 
Courcelles,  the  new  French  ambassador  at  Holyrood ;  it  refers  to 
her  long  absence  from  Scotland,  and  concludes  with  an  expression  of 
regret  at  the  fresh  troubles  which  had  befallen  the  captive  Queen, 
in  consequence,  it  may  be  supposed,  of  Babington's  conspiracy : — 

I  cannot  conclude  without  telling  you  the  extreme  pain  and  anxiety  I  feel  at 
the  distressing  news  which  has  been  reported  here,  that  some  new  trouble  has 
befallen  the  Queen,  my  mistress.     Time  will  not  permit  me  to  tell  you  more. 

LOUIS  BARb£. 


486  The  Gentleman  s  Magaiine. 


THE 
SOUTH  AFRICAN  SALT  LAKES. 


THERE  is  no  country  which  for  monotony  can  compare  with  the 
Trans\'aaL  Grass,  nothing  but  grass,  a  never-ending  plain  of 
undubting  green,  and  across  it  the  waggon  track  you  are  following ;  1 
pair  of  crows  by  the  wayside  a  welcome  variety  ;  a  waggon,  no  matter 
whom  it  belongs  to,  the  event  of  the  day. 

Very  early  one  November  morning,  spring  time  in  South  Africa, 
I  was  riding  over  this  uninviting  land  where  the  traveller's  inclina- 
tions must  give  way  to  those  of  his  oxen.  They  are  a  necessity,  and 
seem  to  know  it ;  ver}'  stupid  and  self-willed,  with  an  aptitude  for 
going  sick,  when  they  lie  down  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  refuse  to 
budge  another  inch. 

So  it  is  to  suit  their  convenience  that  you  have  started  a  good 
hour  before  daybreak,  when  the  grass  is  crystallised  with  hoar-frost 
and  a  white  mist  clings,  thick  and  cold,  shrouding  everything  in  dark- 
ness. You  watch  for  the  dawn  in  the  east,  and  long  for  the  grey 
horizon  to  be  tinged  with  light.  Then  as  a  cold  wind  freezes  up  all 
the  little  life  you  have  left,  the  sun  rising  slowly  tips  the  ground  witfi 
colour,  the  mist  floats  away,  lingering  awhile  in  the  hollows,  wreathing 
round  the  stones,  and  a  pleasant  glow  begins  to  creep  through  your 
frozen  limbs. 

My  pony  seemed  to  feel  the  change,  and  started  oflf  at  a  canter. 
The  monotony  of  the  scene  touched  by  the  magic  of  the  morning 
sun  had  vanished ;  streams  each  in  a  tiny  valley  swirled  against  the 
stones ;  the  hollows  they  were  dancing  in  were  carpeted  with  flowers 
of  brilliant  colour;  the  hills  of  ragged  boulders,  grey  just  now,  were 
tinged  with  pink,  the  cactus  trees  between  them  holding  aloft  blazing 
flowers  ;  and  in  the  distance  were  the  dark-green  gum-trees  about  a 
Boer  farm,  where  eggs  and  milk  and  the  company  of  mankind  could 
be  expected. 

Ant-hills  were  everywhere — rounded,  mud-coloured  heaps,  hard  as 
rocks  and  several  feet  in  height — the  houses  of  the  white  ant  Inside, 
the  ant-hill  is  honey-combed,  the  chambers  filled  with  bits  of  dry 


4S; 

i,  the  ants  living  below  their  granaries.     The  ant-hear,  the  great 

y  of  the  race,  digs  a  hole  under  the  hill  and  gets  pleasant  feeding 

t  of  the  ants  as  they  fall  upon  his  tongue.     The  human  ant-bear 

a  heap  for  an  oven,  it  burns  well,  and  a  hollow  at  the  top 

olds  the  baking-pan.     Wild  bees  have  a  fancy  for  these  ant-hills, 

lut  the  ants  and  fining  their  granaries  with  honey;  so  the 

:  has  a  bad  time  of  it ;  yet  he  prospers,  and  ant-hills  are  as 

kl«ntiful  as  ever. 

;as  making  for  Lake  Chrissic,  tlie  largest  of  the  group  of  salt 
n  the  far  east ;  broad,  inland  seas,  the  home  of  countless  water- 
tiids,  happy  to  find  so  much  water  in  so  waterless  a  land. 

For  several  days  I  had  been  riding  over  a  plateau  4,000  feet  above 
the  sea,  the  nights  bitterly  cold ;  the  wind  never  ceasing,  boisterous, 
arid  loaded  with  dust  during  the  days  ;  the  scene  a  rolling  grass  plain 
t>aded  up  by  quaintly  shaped  hills,  the  clumps  of  blue  gums  left 
t>«liiDd,  even  a  solitary  waggon  wanting ;  a  dreary  country  to  ride 
through.  But  on  this  spring  morning  the  ground  was  all  down  hill — 
a-  pleasant  change  after  a  fortnight  on  the  flat.  I  was  on  the  edge  of 
the  great  basin  in  which  the  Salt  Lakes  lay. 

Monotonous  as  the  ride  had  been,  there  was  a  feeling  of  freedom 
in  riding  across  the  veldt,  quite  charming  ;  there  were  no  hedges  or 
<:hurlish  labourers  to  stop  ine ;  go  where  I  would  it  was  God's  earth, 
as  free  lo  me  as  to  the  antelope. 

There  is  a  thick  white  mist  very  like  cotton- wool  that  clings  about 
Souih  African  valleys  in  early  morning,  waiting  for  the  sun  to  dissolve 
'*  \  and  this  colton-wool  mist  was  wreathing  itself  round  the  ant- 
"«ps  on  that  November  morning.  Sometimes  a  juniper  bush  was  in 
"le  way,  and  would  ravel  out  its  skirts  in  gauzy  fringe  ;  or  a  rock 
f 'eking  up  for  no  particular  purpose  except  to  let  the  soft  stuff  frame 
"  'n  fleecy  fretwork .:  at  odd  intervals  it  would  take  a  fancy  to  open 
°'t  and  disclose  a  herd  of  "  spring-bok,"  or  a  "  pauw  "  busy  amongst 
'he  hyacinths  ;  the  buck  darting  away  into  the  nearest  mist-land,  the 
birtj  craning  his  neck,  uncertain  if  I  were  friend  or  foe. 

1  had  ridden  through  this  mist  for  some  miles,  when,  as  if  by 
I'^eic,  it  rolled  away.  Below  was  a  broad  valley  and  two  patches  of 
^1  Very  light  in  the  hollow,  nearly  a  mile  apart,  fringed  with  bright  turf 
^<i  waving  rushes.     It  was  my  first  glimpse  of  the  Salt  Lakes. 

Riding  on,  the  silver  patches  grew  into  lakes,  on  which  were  birds 
•-^^ting ;  mere  dots  of  black,  only  the  dots  would  rise,  cutting  across 
**^<i  splashing  down  between  other  dots  which  made  way  for  them. 
For  three  months  I  had  seen  nothing  bigger  than  a  village  duck- 


I 


^SS  The  G^)illcmans  Magazine. 

pen  J.  so  ihc  bight  was  novel  and  very  charming,  and  I  rode  on  slowly, 
in  ■uuor  10  miss  nothin  :  of  the  enchantment. 

A'.i  r«und  il^.c   water  was    a   thick    growth    of    rushes   inside 

whii.  !i  :'.c  IjirJs  >a:led  about  quite  fearlessly.     There  were  geese  in 

unij'.a  iv.;m I'crs  ;   ilects  of  ducks  and  widgeon  paddled  near  the 

<■'.  \v-  :  .iiul  herons  and  (juaint,  long-legged  birds  fringed  the  banks, 

¥k.i.::r.^  to:  ihcir  breakiast  to  turn  ujx 

Mc.."^\h;'ic  the  si:n  had  been  getting  higher. 

N  .  w  -..ir.rise  i:i  South  Africa  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  country.    In 

<;/.■..   A:"::c^  the  sun  is  always  in  a  hurry.     In  early  morning  yoa 

>:..\  s :  ^\ :  '*.  • -e  fro>t,  and  are  glad  to  welcome  the  blaze  of  his  rounded 

:. .:  c-:^     \-r  :'-o  1^1  Is.     tor  the  first  half-hour  he  is  perfect;  the  side 

V  f  \ . ..: '. ' ->  :*a::r.cst  from  him  may  feel  like  an  icicle,  but  that  next  to 

.".'.  'k*    ".  '  k'  i:  r.e  lo  a  turn  :  in  ten  minutes  more  he  will  begin  to 

.  \./..^  .:.  .:!;iwi'.l  go  on  o\crdoing  it  till  you  are  altogether  overdone. 

*/  vc  w.'.>  r\  v.'.l'^o  to  a  man  who  was  up  to  his  tricks,  so  I  can- 

,  . ...   .-,  .  \,.;;,.y.  i-juitting  its  pleasant  scene  for  the  pUins 

,. ,:\.*"::o   >;:«.. id  tlijmsclve?.     Small  piles  of  bones,  white 

-:.-   \..  :•."  .:'N.vi  whore  a  buck  had  been  shot ;  their  skins  scD 

•  ;-   ..  \e:  :-".c  Ivoers  ::re  shooimg  them  down  so  rapidi)' 

•^  %...:>  /.c"'-.'  :ho  race  w.'.'.  be  extinct. 

— .  .-i  v.::>.cr  I  cair.e  v.:  ^n  another  valley,  also  holding! 

s  ■       ^.  .•'.-.s.^jo:  ..:  J.::Vv:w:.t  from  the  first.     Here  was  a 

:.xx>.  *.  /./n  .*.".'.   ;j::rvd,  >t;cking  out  in  points  against 

:<  -  '.:>".i  :.      i':vj'  lake  was  about  two  miles  long, 

:..kr,  '.:vc!  wiih  the  water  and  eaten  into 

...     ^    ■•      .••.:*::.  0  .^*.i  .zar.tswho  had  been  blowing  rock- 

^      -^  —:...>  r.;:  .:>.'-■:.'.:'.: ?:d.  when  the  bubbles  bursting, 

.  ,  .   ,>;  :*:;:v.  : 'J  \\.*.5  .i  rank  of  tall  white  birds,  four 

.    .    ^    ..  vj  >:;:!n^.  -  -".  ^^'  ic>.  t-n:ed  out  to  be  flamingoes. 

.....     J    ■     "n-.  •  i:!  ".  : .;  ir. :  a'r>  :  waders  stalked  in  the 

..-.  v     :;l!.uk  and  white  ceese.     But  of  all 

*. ^.c-  *  ■,":  :>-  ?:rar..:es:.     Their  legs  were 

,     .    ;  ^  :.  : '>  :  *  .j'xs  so  absurdly  unequal  to  their 
.-■<,*-■  :.o  '.'■.ir.-'sie  so  marked  a  contrast  to 

-X.  :,:.- <;"..r.'ri:v  ridiculous.     Though  there 

.       .  •  .,   .:  :'^.:"..  I  c.-i'd  no:  detect  a  movement 

y  ;-.  *,  -.i-A.-.^  ce'^ cured  w::h  curiosity  about 

V.  •<  V..:.;-  -  : ":  :  I  d.n*:  believe  one  of  them 

.       '  V  :"'.'  '':*^'3L  :.  sc  '.:ie  a  ;n^at  white  cloud— 


■  .^ 


V  . 


.   »        -    -    «       V. 
Kl  .  .       . 


»*        v.\  • 


H  The  South  African  Salt  Lakes.  489 

The  contrast  between  the  lake  and  the  veMt  around  it  was  very 

slriliiog.     Here  all  was  lire  and  motion;    the  water-birds  darting 

ceaselessly,  leaving  wakes  like  silver  lines  that  broadened  and  died 

;  the  geese  sailing  far  out  of  reach,  calmly  observant ;  the  flamin- 

s  overhead  manoeuvring  against  the  sky  ;  on  the  beach  at  my  feet 

;  sand-pipers  running  races  after  the  worms, 

A  dozen  steps  up  the  bank  and  I  looked  over  a  sea  of  grass 

which  the  waggon-track  wound  away  to  the  sky-line  ;  and  it 

;r  this  dreary  waste  that  1  now  turned  reluctantly.     There 

rere  more  heaps  of  bones,  and  a  few  bucks  scattered  widely.     A  fat 

jumping  up  under  my  pony's  feet  was  startling.     Here  and 

:  lay  an  ox,  dead  long  ago,  its  framework,  dried  to  a  mummy, 

Uractive  to  the  vultures — dirty  brown  birds,  who  craned  their  necks 

tod  sidled  away  from  their  feast  as  I  rode  past ;  sights  which  a  tra- 

I  South  Africa  knows  loo  well     So  I  rode  for  many  miles, 

■■   tiirf  gemmed  with  Dowers,  a  light  yellow  star  in  clusters  more 

Dtnmon  than  the  rest 

In  front  had  been  growing  up  a  line,  darker  than  the  everlasting 
which  I  knew  to  be  the  bank  of  the  next  lake.  The  turf  was 
"oppy  with  bright-green  patches.  In  one  of  them  a  couple  of  grey 
a«2ese  eyed  me  solemnly  ;  a  pair  of  Kaffir  cranes  not  far  off,  the 
't^athcry  plumage  of  their  wings,  soft  dove-colour,  drooping  behind 
''^ero  like  a  tail.  When  I  was  under  the  ridge  I  dismounted,  knee- 
"altcring  my  pony,  and,  creeping  behind  a  clump  of  rushes,  stole  up 
'C»    get  my  first  glimpse  of  the  Great  Salt  Lake. 

In  my  excitement  I  scarcely  breathed.  Quite  close  to  me,  below 
'■»  ^  rushes,  I  saw  a  sheet  of  silver,  reflecting  the  clouds,  dotted  with 
"""Id-fowl ;  the  divers  in  pairs,  the  geese  and  docks  in  fleets,  and  just 
"•^'der  where  I  lay  two  flamingoes  and  three  geese  pluming  them- 
'^'ves,  unconscious  of  the  intruder  behind  the  rushes.  The  silver 
^"^ fleeting  them  doubled  the  number  of  the  birds,  the  ripple  adding 
'^  and  motion  to  the  group.  The  flamingoes  were  snowy  white, 
"^«jir  wings  and  heads  dabbed  with  pink  ;  the  geese,  comfortable 
*^<k  and  while  fellows,  larger  than  the  familiar  Michaelmas  bird, 
^"^^erywhere  the  air  was  filled  with  the  cries  of  other  water-birds,  a 
'^*-*»^slant  chattering,  contented  or  quarrelsome,  hurrying  after  a  scrap 
■  food,  disappointed  when  it  escaped  them,  happy  when  it  was 
^-tilured.  Then  down  the  wind  came  the  whirr  of  many  wings  as 
-  newcomers  splashed  into  the  lake. 
The  water  stretched  as  far  as  I  could  see  for  about  four  miles, 
^**<ding  in  a  line  of  boulders,  piled  loosely  one  upon  the  other,  and 
'^'^tted    with   bnishwood,    forming  a  promontory   stretching  nearly 


>H« 


I 


^90  The  Gcntlcmans  Magazifu. 

across  the  lake,  \\hich  had  got  to  be  named  after  it,  '^  Island  Lake 
Pan  "  -  *'  Salt  Pan  "  is  the  local  term  for  a  salt  lake.  I  was  loth  to 
disturb  the  peaceful  home  I  was  looking  into,  but  time  was  flying 
the  lake  was  long,  and  to  miss  exploring  it  was  out  of  the  question. 
So  I  jumped  up.  The  faces  of  those  birds  were  comical ;  they  were 
so  astonished,  they  could  not  believe  their  own  eyes  ;  if  ever  birds 
were  taken  aback,  it  was  the  five  below  me.  The  flamingoes  were 
the  most  ludicrous  ;  their  little  eyes  twinkled,  and  stared,  and 
blinked  again  ;  if  they  had  owned  pocket-handkerchiefs  they  wouki 
have  taken  them  out  and  wiped  away  the  wonder  that  was  in  them. 
As  it  was  they  gathered  their  wits  together,  and  spreading  their 
wings  flapped  away  followed  by  the  geese,  quacking  indignantly. 

The  shore  was  sand,  white,  and  broken  on  the  far  side  into 
miniature  capes  ;  round  each  a  colony  of  ducks,  some  waddling, 
some  swimming,  the  rest  standing  while  they  put  a  finishing  touch 
to  their  toilettes,  every  one  of  them  quacking  incessantly. 

Scattered  along  the  beach  were  many  weather-worn  bones,  the 
skulls  of  the  hippopotami  that  once  made  the  lake  their  home  ;  and 
a  little  farther  inland  amongst  the  rushes  were  the  hiding-places, 
roughly  built  of  turf,  from  which  they  had  been  shot ;  their  favourite 
haunt  a  large  circular  pool  upon  the  far  side  of  the  promontoxy 
towards  which  I  was  walking. 

Half-way  between  it  and  the  head  of  the  lake  a  colony  of  water- 
fowl was  conspicuous,  attracted  by  a  stream  which  wandered  through 
a  green  patch  to  the  water,  and  going  on  towards  them  I  nearly 
stepped  into  a  hole,  larger  than  a  soup-plate,  perhaps  two  feet  deep. 
It  had  been  lately  made,  the  water  still  running  into  it.  A  few  feet 
farther  towards  the  lake  was  another  just  like  it,  and  again  another. 
There  was  nothing  to  account  for  the  holes,  but  I  could  not  help 
examining  them  curiously.  The  mud  and  oozing  water  told  nothing, 
and  I  looked  up  for  some  one  who  could  help  me.  Facing  the  lake, 
I  saw  three  dots  floating  on  the  water  which  slowly  sank  out  of  sight, 
then  bobbed  up  again  just  in  the  same  place.  The  dots  were  very 
like  three  burnt  corks  out  for  a  holiday,  yet  it  dawned  upon  me  that 
they  were  the  eyes  and  nose  of  a  hippopotamus.  The  dots  were 
quite  still  now,  and  I  could  fancy  that  I  saw  the  eyes  of  the  monster 
enjoying  my  inability  to  do  more  than  stare  at  him.  For  a  good  half- 
hour  while  I  watched  them  I  don't  think  they  changed  their  position 
one  inch,  they  just  looked  or  swam  me  out,  and  as  it  was  getting 
dusk  I  had  to  leave  them. 

A  Boer  told  me  afterwards  that  one  old  hippopotamus  is  left, 
spending  his  time  between  Island  Lake  Pan  and  Lake  Chrissie ;  his 


The  South  African  Salt  Lakes.  491 

habit  being  to  wander  from  one  to  the  other  at  night,  frightening,  not 
unnaturally,  the  travellers  he  may  chance  to  meet 

There  is  a  charm  m  camp  life  in  South  Africa ;  the  air  is  cool 
and  fresh,  the  veldt  you  have  picked  out  for  the  night  is  dotted  with 
flowers,  the  sky  is  cloudless,  and  the  stars  peep  out  quite  early,  the 
wind,  which  all  day  long  has  been  tearing  across  the  plains,  has  gone 
down,  and  the  little  table  under  the  lee  of  your  waggon  promises 
dinner  to  the  best  of  appetites  ;  just  beyond  the  camp-fire  sparkles, 
the  only  sound  the  oxen  chewing  their  evening  meal.  You  are  your 
own  master,  and  alone. 

True,  you  have  to  do  without  a  great  deal  that  you  used  to  think 
indispensable,  the  necessities  of  outdoor  life  bringing  home  to  a  man 
that  hot,  well-cooked  food  is  better  than  many  delicate  dishes,  a  dis- 
covery which  has  made  the  "  Kaffir  pot "  an  institution  in  South 
Afirica.  It  is  a  clumsy,  cast-iron  concern,  akin  to  the  witches' 
cauldron  in  Macbeth,  but  it  will  stand  knocking  about  over  the 
roughest  roads  in  the  waggon,  has  little  choice  about  the  fire  that 
warms  it,  will  hold  a  great  deal  no  matter  what  its  size  or  shape,  and 
when  heated  keeps  hot  a  long  time.  The  ducks  and  hippopotamus 
were  well  enough,  but  never  was  anything  more  welcome  than  this 
same  clumsy  "  Kaffir  pot "  and  my  lumbering  waggon  brought  up  for 
the  night,  which  I  picked  up  after  a  good  hour's  ride. 

Next  morning,  for  a  change,  the  track  was  undulating  ;  here  and 
there  rocks  stuck  out  of  the  turf ;  on  either  side  were  hollows,  the 
beds  of  dried* up  lakes ;  indeed,  local  tradition  has  it  that  the  lakes 
themselves  are  drying  up,  but  then  tradition  dates  from  yesterday  in 
South  Africa,  Pools  were  plentiful — I  counted  five  from  one  hill — 
generally  round,  circled  with  rushes,  and  quite  devoid  of  life.  The 
swells  in  the  vddt  were  interminable,  one  after  another  was  climbed 
with  a  certainty  that  Lake  Chrissie  would  be  in  sight  from  the  top  ; 
the  top  reached  and  an  expanse  of  green  was  all  that  met  the  eye. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  lie  of  the  land,  a  little  bit  down  the  hill  and  the  lake 
would  appear.  But  the  little  bit  became  a  long  bit,  and  the  long  bit 
went  up  the  next  swell,  and  still  there  was  no  lake.  Yet  it  was  only 
ten  miles  from  Island  Lake  Pan  to  Lake  Chrissie,  just  an  hour's  canter. 
Try  ten  miles'  ride  in  England,  in  some  part  of  it  where  there  are  no 
hedges,  no  trees,  no  cottages,  where  the  mud  shows  no  sign  of  wheels, 
where  the  horizon  is  always  a  long,  unbroken  line,  and  you  will  form 
an  idea  of  the  monotony  of  ten  miles  on  the  veldt. 

But  even  that  must  come  to  an  end,  and  so  at  last  a  bright  streak 
of  water  on  the  left  told  me  that  my  ride  was  done.  A  little  below, 
in  a  hollow,  lay  Lake  Chrissie,  the  greatest  of  all  the  salt  lakes. 


.-  - ^  --  -  -«. 

.-  i-Lz  f-  i-^i'.tr?.  :-lz:  indbca-ri- 

:  :  ■'  :      -  I  r^i  =--:  ~y  hem  upon 

. "  :    z 5  -  u:  ztTzri  i^zT  ihii srlll  WatCT 

:---=;      :"  j--^irrrs  it  the  head 

_i  :.-;  -1.-::  ..il  ir-iniv  i'd  Stale 

■5   -  i :  "r  : :"  i^e  il-:~i  of  inv  sea- 

-i-   --i^:!   .:  rj-r::r  -jj:-  me  like  a 

-  =  — 1^  z  LJii  .ZB  seven  mfies  of 

:  _-.-        .-,-'.t-Z' t    i-i  eeese  are 


.  ->.  L. 


«        . 


■  ;-=-  i:  uiy  rare,  b-chind  the 

-  .  :t  1    ;_;  --:r:i.:^e  "srho  car.  ulk. 

-  ~  ■  r   "-=—':  -■-  -  "«~-  '■.:5  :  f  ;*-s  customers, 
:.---::     .ill"      1:5   cinter/us  ne-.-cr 

'--"--;:■?      - :  :>-  e  c  ■>:■■  r,  several 

1   :.::-    .  u_-^   T^:-:td  ver.- black 

.-  .-    1  1  : .  —  :r  ij-e  =■  :xe  sc'.ciers'  red 

:   ■    --li.f   u:i   ir.ili^.  behind  the 

■    — ~r  -'11 :-  .  r.  ^:.j  -r^lih.  :onnets,pre- 

':  ■     i       "M   ::>.  ^-c^-rl'-mssonihe 

-  iz:  "Li.:_--:s  'z-^.ltrzC  in  bv  the 

1     ; .  ■    ;  ■■  :■;-:  i^  :.;  i  ur  in  hanks,  such 

^L.-'z   ::   :'t   K^.r   r:.i:den :  tins  of 

•-.-  -  r-:i.  -  :"-.  v-.r  r. ever- wrantiDs  black 

:  .7:     s:  -Jire  fice."  some  rumblen 

-  --  ::  :>z-:h.:kr.ess  and  superfluity 

'-.:-.-      I :.: r.Lils  r::ike  for  this  bottle 

-J  1  ..  ^:5.  z  ii^:^  ;js:  is  I.rrle  water  as 

■.i.-  ^-:'r.'::r.\-\vi2.\:v\\     Its  price 


^ » 


•w  >> 


.     .:  .  -        t  ':     " ':..:'-.  is  -'.T:iys  in  front  of  a  Boer 

■    -  ■     .       :  .  ■  -  i  -.  ■ :  : :  _r.:c:  v-^re  :hree  young  men  in 

::■--:.:::-::::  :"j.m:er.  his  wife,  and  three 

':->•-:?     .-.   i.::y  ir.i  hilfcr-.ir.k  ;  his  wife,  got  up 

"     -  -     r.-.  i-.i  ^  :--e:   ::'  rr-inv  hues,  was  elderlv  and 

1  • .  •■:.:-_:::: :f .  f  ::i  -  r  J  cr*?.  ^ i'h  ven*  r  ink  faces  swathed 

"        :;    :^r.:.^:f  :.  y:fr:r. .-  :  >:::  crnv-'exions,  and  wearing  while 

?-""-  ""r.T^  '.  nC  i.".  ."fi  rf /..I'. T".'-".<i"rf  jli  hon*.c. 

'.  :  .:_r>i- r..::"- '..jLr.i  s'.-.jikiri:  :':*.lo^ec,  the  old  Boer  repeating 
:'i  :•:::.::?.  -..:>.  ::-  iyt  ::  ^::srtc::ve  "square  face,"  his  rrau 
fc.^n.:  *y  ci;--;  '.ki'vife.  :>.e  ^:r".5  stretching  out  their  arms  at  full 
'.erc:h  :r.  a  tiir-.Vlc  r.-rr>-  fc-r  :he:r  :urn.  and  when  it  was  over  backing 
at  cr.g^MQ  iheir  ccrr.er. 


The  South  African  Salt  Lakes.  493 

My  nationality  aj  a  **  doompt  Ingleeshmaan  "  did  not  prevent  the 
venerable  Dutchman  from  starting  a  "  deal,"  and  asking  for  a  glass  of 
" square  face."  The  ** deal"  settled  and  the  "square  face"  drunk, 
he  became  noisy,  and  seemed  inclined  to  stop  where  he  was  for 
the  night.  But  the  old  woman  told  me  they  had  a  twenty-mile  trek 
before  they  got  home,  and  so  at  last  hauled  him  off. 

Outside  the  store  was  the  head  of  Lake  Chrissie,  lost  in  sandy 
shallows,  the  water  stretching  away  for  seven  miles,  shaped  like  a  half- 
moon  ;  on  the  left  hand  a  beach  of  hard,  white  sand,  excellent 
cantering  ground.  High  banks  shut  out  the  country  round,  the  lake 
was  my  company.  Well  out  in  the  centre  the  water-fowl  paddled 
fearlessly  ;  now  and  then  a  flight  of  geese  would  join  them  with  a 
whirr  and  much  splashing.  The  farther  end  of  the  lake  was  circular 
and  singularly  devoid  of  life.  Altogether  Lake  Chrissie  hardly  came 
up  to  my  expectations.  I  felt  a  little  bit  disappointed,  the  ride  had 
been  so  long,  the  goal  appeared  so  small,  and  I  rode  up  the  bank 
which  enclosed  my  disappointment.  The  change  was  magical. 
Instead  of  the  dreary  veldt  the  country  was  broken  into  undulations 
crossing  each  other  like  network,  the  surface  blackened  by  herds  ot 
buck.  Everywhere  patches  of  darker  colour  against  the  green,  dotted 
with  specks  of  white,  told  of  their  rendezvous.  Each  family  had  a 
patch  to  itself;  the  "spring-bok"  apart  from  the  "bless-bok";  the 
"  reed-bok  "  more  scattered ;  the  tiny  "  oriby  "  in  between  ;  farther 
away  a  line  of  bigger  beasts  with  shaggy  heads,  and  feet  incessantly 
pawing  up  the  turf,  the  prize  coveted  by  South  African  sportsmen, 
the  "blue  wildebeast,"  the  "gnu"  of  our  childhood.  I  counted 
twenty  separate  herds,  and  there  must  have  been  many  more  in  the 
hollows  which  I  could  not  see.  I  was  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  nearest  antelope,  but  they  took  no  notice  of  me. 

•  After  gazing  at  the  scene  till  my  eyes  grew  dim,  I  turned  away 
towards  the  lake,  the  shadows  creeping  across  the  water  warning  me 
that  it  was  time  to  be  off.  Camp  was  at  the  store,  a  good  eight  miles' 
ride  in  a  country  where  darkness  falls  quickly  and  the  traveller  misses 
the  pleasant  evening  twilight. 

As  I  rode  along  the  beach  the  rush  of  wings  overhead  was 
continuous,  the  geese  in  long  lines  making  for  a  point  where  they 
seemed  to  alight.  This  place  was  in  a  hollow,  separated  from  the 
lake  by  sand-hills,  so  my  approach  was  not  observed  by  its  visitors. 
The  geese  were  so  eager  to  reach  it  that  they  never  swerved,  although 
many  of  them  flew  very  close  to  me.  Every  bird  was  a  black  and 
white  goose,  like  those  I  had  seen  in  the  morning,  and  gave  an  occa- 
sional quack  of  satisfaction  on  sighting  his  roosting-place. 


:-     ^    ■  -   .     -_■..:..;  :"— :  I  cc-".i  no:  forl»eJX  from  dismounting, 

1  .-. .    .11  . .     "  1  :'-.,  iir.i  >-lll5  ^::  u:  :o  wi:hin  nfiy  yards  of  the 

■J.    .      .-  -    .:':_-'--:  Li'.-.n^^  =::i  ::>  see  ill  i:u.t  wis  going  oa 

■  ..  .:  .--."-  :---!  zzjiz'S.     I  wis  lookiri^  dovn  on  a  long,  swampy 
-  ■    -  -::.i'  =  :lL'  :.  :-  ".=  i'  l=L^:h,  a  p*xil  of  water  winding  through 

.  :i.  :i.-.  .:r  1.-. -  ir.ktr.  -ai^  cl::n:j:s  o:  mshes,  the  banks  crowded 

. .:  _:     r ::.-  i-r .:.  r. ::  :z  rr:-:  5. 1  u:  in  one  solid  rank,  many  deep, 

^.   ^.  l.-Tr  ':-:!: ti.  ■..="■  ^::5e  chaiiericg,  waddling,  or  polishing 

■  «  :i :.■-:.. :r  :.:  :l"i  :.  .:"m     Tr.e  ass-eail'.y  counted  many  thousands, 
_-  .     .:.:.-_:..   -  ::,s'r.  urs.z  wo-'.d  5woo:>  down  amid  noisv  creet- 

-  .-.  I-  ::.L  ji:\=r."  J  ij.:m.r.e5s  the  lirjs  lo^^iked  like  rows  of  pigmies 
'.-::.■.'.  ".  ji->r  i'.-L  iar.ii-:?.  That  marsh  must  have  been 
:    .  ..«•.'.    : :' :   .r   ^.-rf r  i:  "Jie  i^'.:  lakes. 

I.  -..:..L  ■  1  ;  ■/  :.  i  f.-rb  :>.c:.-n  :r*  iheir  haj^py  home  ;  I  could 

•.  .  ?■  .:  :~.::.  r.._::::  r.e  •  /.r.  cafe,  lu:  the  larder  was  well  stocked, 

.  I    ..  I  r. .:  :   .  :  .  ::  ::  :-:r-ie  wr.^re  I  was  not  wanted.     To  this 

.:..  :  r..   .:  :   .  :  :  ..^:  j::v:^  w::h.j:  thinking  of  my  moderation 

■  .  .  •  ■       •     • 

:    J   :  i.    :       ::•■;    .v::?  !jr.g  ^nd  a  Li:  dreary  ;  the  night  noises, 
.  -   r^r.-r-jj  -".-  -^  L\:d.  "  ^:\:  r.:u!:i: '.ie.!  in  the  stillness:  some 

:  - .;-  :*..; ;  -.  .1  ..  :: « -  .'  :Lr.  •.:r..--.r.r.y  wiy  ;  ue  anteloi>e  drinking  at  the 

■  •..  :".:■.;.  :  :•.:■.  r.'.::-  !.ke  ^r..?:<  :ha:i  honcit  buck  :  the  stars  shone 
-.L  ?■.-..;  .  .:.:*  - :"/ .  ".  .ke.  ^-tcr.ir.j  :r.e;r  i:li:ter.  retlecting  it  endlessly; 

. :  i  - :  jc  - « :  ^  y  •  : :  r  ::;.,;::  '.y  .:  .i :  d  c.  N :  jh  t  g  re  w  on  apace  ;  often  I 
:  .  _'..:  1  r.- A  :"  :  ^  ..::*.:■-:*: :j  a;:e-;i.  l-u:  i:  was  only  a  glowworm, 
i  .w  v...y  ?.i::r.ji  -:  '.  ._:  a-./:  never-ending  that  I  began  to  think  I 
f  -'.i  :...'.  J  t.^  i ..::::  - ..:  v. ::..  :::y  faJdle  for  a  pillow,  poetical  enough 
:  .  ;  :.:\:.  lu:  r.  vl:;.:.ry  :  .-.Nir.L-s  i\hen  you  have  tried  it  before  and 
',::.  v  h.'.v  c  j'.vl  .;ni  d.vr.y-*  ::  :<.  Iiut  the  pony  was  a  good  one  and 
i-tt-:  ;  L-d  .::  :.c.:::!!y. ::!!  ir*  fr.r.:.  oh,  so  far  away  1  blazed  out  a  spaik, 
rLviJ.er  :!'...r*  t/.c  >:.:r5,  a  s;  ark  ^\hiLh  the  tedious  lake  did  not  reflect, 
a  <pu:k  li.at  j:rcw  L  :-;-:s;r.  nuki:;^  the  pony  prick  his  ears  and  quicken 
i.:>  \jn.'j,  :::'.  i:  ^.tcw  lr:j;h:er.  and  the  sand  softer,  and  the  pony  more 
I-.:niberir.j  :  :he:i.  all  at  once,  as  if  by  magic,  the  darkness  melted 
Lack  ir.  a  circle  ruiir.d  ti:e  camp-nre.  from  which  rang  out  cheerful 
\.  :c«:<.  The  next  minute  I  was  out  of  the  saddle,  surrounded  by  the 
three  you;:^  men,  in  siiirt- sleeves,  from  the  store,  who  seemed  to  say 
that  dii'.nL-r  v.a-i  ready.  It  was  a  pleasant  ending  to  one  of  many 
pl-.abant  days  which  I  spent  at  the  Soutli  African  Salt  Lakes. 

W.   £.  MONTACVSi 


495 


MYTHS   OF   THE  STARS,   LIGHT, 

AND    TIME. 

STELLAR  FIGURES  IN  ECCLESIASTICAL  SCULPTURE^ 

POPULAR  RHYMES. 

WHATEVER  traveller  may  have  sat  among  the  crowded  tombs 
of  the  once  famous  abbey  of  Clonmacnoise,  a  quiet  spot 
above  the  sedgy  Shannon,  some  few  miles  below  Athlon  e,  has  pro- 
bably spent  some  time  in  puzzling  over  the  ancient  sculptures  of  the 
"Cross  of  the  Scriptures."  Besides  the  scriptural  subjects  repre- 
sented in  its  compartments,  which  give  it  this  name,  some  other 
curious  figures  may  be  clearly  made  out — a  hand  within  a  nimbus  or 
ring ;  heads  within  a  sort  of  cable  or  snake-like  setting  ;  and  a  nonde- 
script figure,  above,  a  woman,  below,  a  bellows,  or  something  like  it 
There  is  also  a  cat,  seemingly  playing  music  ;  and  this  same  subject 
is  found  not  many  miles  away  as  a  public- house  sign. 

Although  there  is  no  tradition,  new  or  old,  to  explain  these 
figures,  they  have  certain  analogies.  The  legendary  monster  of 
Leitir-Dallain,  bom  of  an  unnatural  union,  was  very  much  like  one 
of  the  images  on  the  stone  cross,  "  a  human  head  upon  it,  the  make 
of  a  smith*s  bellows  the  rest."  On  the  cross  at  Durrow,  in  the  same 
county,  is  a  dog  or  other  animal  within  a  circle  ;  at  Glendalough,  a 
dog  within  a  triangle  (cf.  Cerberus),  and  other  curious  figures ;  at 
Templedouglas,  in  Donegal,  a  unicorn -like  creature  on  a  large  arm 
and  hand  ;  at  Cashel,  a  Sagittarius  aiming  at  a  lion,  and  a  bull.  A 
hand,  three-fingered,  generally  within  a  nimbus,  occurs  on  various 
French  cathedrals  and  abbeys,  e.g,  Saintes.*  The  leaden  bullae  of 
Victor  II.  show  such  a  hand  issuing  from  a  cloud  and  giving  a  key  to 
Saint  Peter. 

As  we  find  the  whole  zodiac  sculptured,  in  a  celebrated  piece,  on 
the  porch  of  the  cathedral  of  Amiens,  and  again  on  the  portal  of  at 
least  one  old  English  church,  there  seems  good  reason  to  understand 
the  archer,  lion,  and  bull  at  Cashel  as  Sagittarius,  Leo,  and  Taurus. 
It  seems  to  have  been  a  tradition  of  the  ecclesiastical  masons  to 
beautify  the  terrestrial  temples  with  celestial  images. 

*  Maury,  Ugendes  Picuus  du  Moym-Age^  1 14  n. 


The  CcnlUman  &  Magazine. 

The  dog,  hand,  and  piping  cat  should  belong  to  the  same  class  ; 
for  it  is,  in  the  first  place,  unlikely  that  the  last  of  these  was  sculptured 
as  a  joke  on  Saint  Clatan's  cross  ;  secondly,  such  matters.  Id  ancient 
art,  legend,  or  popular  rhyme,  are  Tound  generally  to  date  from  veiy 
old  times  :  we  meet  tradition  everywhere,  and  Utile  invention. 

The  cat  and  fiddle,  cat  and  pipes,  occur  in  English  childreo'i 
riiymes; — 
I  .  .  .  Ihe  cat  ami  the  litlJIe  ; 

I  The  cow  jomped  met  ihe  moon ; 

Thi^  Utile  dog  laughed  .  .  . 
And  the  dish  ran  away  with  ihc  Ipoon. 
We  could  show  that  such  rhymes  are  often  old   mythological  nn^ 
astronomical  relics  connected  with  the  husbandman's  year.     Such  "^"^ 
the  rhyme  on  Giliy  Garter  (Jarretiire),  the  garter  tost  in  rain  a^^ 
afterwards  ground  up  as  corn  ;  that  on  Dicky  Diher,  or  Delver(lS)y 
husbandman),  and  his  wife  of  silver,  thrown  by  the  miller  (like  (Ik 
grain-god  Tammuz)  "in  the  rivet";  and  that  about  the  mie-eynj 
gunner  killing  all  the  birds  (days?)  of  the  summer.     Such  is  Bums's 
verse,  adapted  from  an  old  harvest  song  :— 

There  were  three  kings  into  ihe  east. 
Three  kings  liaith  greitl  and  high, 
And  ihey  hae  BwDrn  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

These  three  kings  are  the  three  stars  of  Orion's  Belt,"lesTroi5Roy)i" 
and  the  Three    Mowers  of  the  French  and  German  farmers,  lb*      , 
"  Wainiimoinen's  Scythe  "  of  the  Finns.' 

Tile  piping  or  fiddling  cat  or  cow  is  apparently  one  animal  "i'li 
the  spinning  sow  or  cow  of  popular  tales.  Now  this  truUfui^" 
again  scul|3tured  on  the  cathedral  porclies  of  Chartres  and  Sainl-Pol- 
de-l,eon  )  it  occurred  as  a  tavern  sign  and  street  name  at  I.yonsana 
Dijon;  and  a  mountebank  was  burned  at  Paris  for  exhibiting' 
living  magical  spinning  sow  there  in  I4(t6 — an  animal  answering '" 
the  learned  pig  and  sow  of  knowledge  of  English  fairs,  and  of  popul" 
tradition.*  We  will  show  below  that  the  spinning  or  playing  anin* 
must  be  an  old  conception  of  the  seven  stars,  Ursa  Major.  The 
music  played  or  web  spun  is  time,  the  seven  stars  being  conneflWi 
as  we  shall  find  in  many  instances,  with  the  week. 

The  "cow  "in  our  rhyme  and  "  little  dog"  suggest  Ovid's  de- 
scription of  Taurus  (Fast.  iv.  717): — 

Vacca  sil  an  taunis,  non  est  cognosccre  prompti 


'  Caslren,  Finnisckt  Mylkohgii,  320.     Criinni. 

'  Monnier,  Tradilisiu  Pffulairts  C^mfarJit,  506,  507- 


1 


Myths  of  the  Stars,  Light,  and  Time.        497 

and  Canicula,  the  dog-star.    Taurus  and  Ursa  Major  seem  to  be 
confounded  sometimes  in  mythological  legend. 

The  "  dish  "  is  in  all  probability  the  Dervish's  Dish,  or  Broken 
Dish  (the  Northern  Crown) ;  and  the  "  spoon  "  again  Ursa  Major, 
now  called  the  Dipper/  or  ladle,  in  the  United  States. 

LIVING  NAMES  OF  ORION'S  BELT. 

1.  Viewed  severally  these  three  stars  are  in  Ireland  The  Three 
Wandering  Brothers  (Westmeath).  The  Greenlanders  and  some 
Red  Indian  tribes  have  a  like  conception  ;  or  The  Three  Children  in 
Ike  Boiler  d  Lead—^^  God  put  them  up  there  to  guide  the  sailors." 
This  boiler  of  lead  figures  in  versions  of  the  ancient  tale  The  Three 
Children  of  Uisnech,  and  in  The  Black  Thief.  Or  The  Sailor^  Stars, 
and  the  Leading  Stars.  Boys  in  Yorkshire  call  them  the  Sailors* 
Board. 

2.  The  figure  is  a  measuring  rod,  rod  of  rule,  and  ruler.  The 
Kinfs  Rod  (Slat-a'-righ,  Tyrone) ;  the  Merchant's  Rod  (Slat-a'- 
cheannaidhe,  Mayo,  Donegal,  etc.) ;  or  the  Pedlar^ s  Rod,  the  Tailor's 

Yardwand,  the  Weaver's  Yard,  the  Yard,  the  Rule  of  Three  (West- 
meath, etc.) 

In  Leitrim  we  fibd  the  old  name,  The  Ladfs  Ell,  implying  the 
conception  {a)  of  an  elbow,  forearm  (V)  of  a  measure,  like  the  mer- 
chant's or  tailor's  wand.  The  foregoing  names  have  been  collected 
from  living  oral  tradition. 

CELTIC  LEGENDS  WITH  STELLAR  BASES-MORION'S  BELT 

A   HAND,  dr'c. 

"  The  Lady's  Ell "  is  Righ-Mnd-Nuadat,  the  forearm  of  Nuada's 
wife,  renowned  in  very  ancient  tradition,  especially  in  connexion 
with  the  fabled  breaking  out  of  the  River  Boyne.  The  husband  of 
the  lady  B6ind  (whence  Boyne)  is  Nuada  Necht  or  Nechtin  (/>. 
the  bright  or  white),*  otherwise  Nuada  Silverhand  (Aiget-limh).  At 
"the  Age  of  the  World  3310"  the  Four  Masters  duly  chronicle  the 
cutting  oflf  of  this  Nuada's  hand,  and  the  fitting  in  its  place  of  a  hand 

of  silver. 

The  silver  hand  or  silver  "  arm  "  »  of  Nuada,  "  shining  hand  "  of 

•  Webster,  s.  v.    Some  of  the  popular  rhymes  rcfcned  to  above  seem  to  be  a 

sort  of  riddles. 

•  The  word  is  glossed  ** clean,"  "snow-white." 

•  CyCurry,  FaU  of  Children  of  Tuirenn,  158. 

VOL.  CCLVIII.     NO.  1853.  M  M 


5  "  dbov  "  of  his  lady,  seeoi  a& 

.    J  be  Oiion's  Belt,  wfakh  old  propW  /« 

^*^^  "p^^'  »^  Ae  aatiTcsof  NewZeakntf  lie 

s  IB  this  paper  of  composite  ajOa; 
a  ia  Bijifacdogy  geDerally,  and  doubllM 
laage  of  the  week  and  its  days. 
ilioinl  ijmboL     From  the  O.Veilli, 
A  s  SB  heraldic  charge  lo  Engiish 
*  fc«  *■  *e  ftwftittue^  in  Ulster),  and  it  is  found  oa    j 
^  *e,  viA  Afw  finfP-iS  as  En  the  coat  of  the  Astons.        I 
-  ^*"*^  **™* "  *'^°'"**^  *<*  t^'  a  tale  of  three  brolhffi 
Bl^aiiklRiaikd.    He  that  toochcd  the  new  bland  first  nuio 
;  ""d  FoEos,  caning  off  his  hand.  thre«  Ihit 
"IW  mlogiCT  of  ihk  rtoiy  make  it  pretty  certain  that  the 
■  fanAets'  arc  the  Bdt,  and  the  three-finfmd 
The  pofNibi  t«le  arises  from  the  coordinujan 
of  dtese  fowirfictoty  coacepooos  to  one  series. 

The  naae  of  the  bnh  goddess,  the  Mdrrigan,  may  very  «il 
■«m,»Ot  "patqoBen."  b«  -gtcnarm"  <ry:A).  Hera  H)l«- 
dteiria,  a  nide  dhrnitf  whose  ancient  wooden  image  was  shown  it 
Sputi,  was  assodatcd  inA  «  flood  of  the  Eurotas,  as  Boiod^nd 
her  aim  (*%*)  '  widi  ihe  bfe*kii»g  out  of  the  Boyne.  Hypeidieiril. 
wUA  is  not  suisbctoifly  expUioed,  may  oiean  "  the  greai-handed." 
just  as  ijftrtUa  means  "  great-Ic^ed." 

The  national  heroes,  Lug  Longhand  (/JmA-faJa),  and  Corbnuc 
Long-eUfOw  (m^ada) ;  ONeiU's  |sovince,  the  clans  of  the  long-eUx)* 
{UZad);  and  the  ancient  royal  race,  the  Dal-R^hada  (long-wn), 
most  owe  these  names  to  rebied  myths.  Again,  Lug  is,  by  differ"! 
accounts,  "  son  of  three  hounds  "  {moi  tri  am),  or  son  of  the  Tlir« 
WTiitc  (or  bright)  Brothers,  the  Findemna.  This  is  a  Celuc  voshu 
oiihe  generation  of  Orion  by  three  fathers,  and  the  det« 
the  triplication  feature  seem  to  be  the  three  stars  of  OHod'! 


BAND  CONCEPTION  CONTrNVED-TRlPLICATE  NATlOSM- 
SYMBOLS-THKEE  DE  DANANN,  &\. 

The  old  division  of  Ireland  into  "  Conn's  Half"  (the  north) •"^ 
" Mog-Nuadat's  Half"  (the  south)  appears  to  be  connected*'^ 

'  EtfKhl,  "sbioine"  (Windisch}.  <  Taylor,  363. 

>  ^.^^(morc  Bncienlly  r/^)  mems  both  '■liing"jnd  "fofMnn,"  "«*"" 


f^  Myths  of  the  Stars,  Light,  and  Time:       ^^ 

H       aslronomical  fancies.    The  northern  "wolf,"  Conn,  is,  as  we  show 

H      ehewhere,  one  myth  with  the  wolf  Lycaon,  i.e.  the  northern  Bear,  Ursa 

H      Major.    Mog-Nuadat,  Mog-Diiim,  Mog-Liimhe,  mean,  and  are  well 

H      known  to  mean,  "  Servant  of  Nuada  "  Silverhand,  "  Servant  of  the 

H       Fist,"  "  Servant  of  the  Hand."     The  "  hand  "  we  suggest  is  Orion's 

I       Belt,  and  it  is  not  improbable  that  such  fancies  come  down  from  days 

I        when  the  island  was  in  the  hands  of  those  Druids  of  whom  Ciesar 

I       irrites,  "  Many  things  beside  do  they  dispute  regarding  the  stars  and 

I       their  movements,  the  size  of  the  world  and  its  countries,  nature,  and 

■       the  power  of  the  immortal  gods  "  (vi,  14),     Saint  Patrick's  hand  (a 

If        feniDus  relic)  and  his  triple  well,  localized  in  various  places,  must  be 

compared  with  these  pagan  myths  of  Orion's  Belt ;  and  Saint  Furscy's 

Ruler,  a  guide  to  navigators,  in  a  legend  cited   below,  with  the 

"Rule  of  Three,"  the  commonest  Anglo-Irish  name  for  this  figure. 

This  and  other  conceptions,  an  ell,  a  yard,  three  barleycorns,  would 

suggest  that  a  fanciful  constant  of  number,  measure,  and  time  was 

sought  by  primitive  men  in  the  skies, 

Celtic  legend  is  full  of  triplications.  A  bull  (Taurus)  and  three 
cfanes,  the  Tarvos  Trigaranus,  is  found  as  an  ancient  Gallic  myth  on 
ite  sculptures  found  under  Notre  Dame  in  lyti.     Ireland  has  its 

t'hree- fingered  hand  and  shamrock;  Wales,  three  feathers  or  leeks 
(with  an  alleged  modern  origin) ;  the  Isle  of  Mann,  a  triquetra,  the 
"  three  legs  of  Mann."  The  shield  with  the  old  French  three  lilies 
iJeseended  to  Clovis  from  the  sky. 

There  are  hand  and  finger  myths  to  which  the  foregoing  explana- 
'ions  will  not  apply.  Persephone  was  hand-born  {xfipoyovta).  Isis 
ffieds  her  child  with  her  finger.  Hercules  was  himself  a  finger, 
Herakles  Daktulos,  and  lost  one  by  the  Neratean  lion. 

The  Hercules  of  popular  tradition  is  Tom  Thumb,  Siegfrtt- 
flickalhrift.  True  Thomas.  As  Tom  Hickathrift  "  never  yet 
(fiad)  broke  his  word,"  '  Siegfrtt  (Hearne's  Hycophric)  or  Sigurd  is, 
"'e  think,  the  "sure"  or  true  hero  {sicker,  sfgur).  The  Homeric 
''^rue  Thomas — multiform,  like  him — is  Proteus  or  Phorcys,  the  Tnie 
^'d  Man  of  the  Sea,  counting  up,  in  the  fourth  book  of  the 
^^iyssey  (41a),  his  wonderful  sea-cattle,  Helios's  oxen,  on  his  five 
finders. 

The  non-stellar  hand-myths  are  treated  in  the  following  division 
^'"  TOir  subject. 

'  Hicklthtifl's  waia  turned  upside  down  is  Ihe  starry  Wain.  •'  Before 
'**^'4ntghl  the  waggon  is  said  to  be  going  out,  when  the  pole  inclines  upwards ;  and 
^*«r  midnight  it  goes  home,  and  then  the  pole  inclines  downwards  "  (Kuhn  and 


'"-  .V-.  -  .-'• .-?  :::':isr::y  :.-  tite  wee^:  or  year, 

Tii  '..LzL  '.--:::-=  zizl  :r  :':•::.  ziZ'ts.rs  in  connexion  with 
:-i  .:"  -_-i  r:jc  =7:tir:  :f —j.-Ji:'..^;::!'.  consu^is.  hitherto  little 
1    1  ;-::-=!■■":  :rr^      "I  :  .=  .=  :r.e  Civs  z-i  ihe  week  or  vear. 

r-I-.T. -i  r"'.  ."  -  lA-'.-i  i.-p  >.:■«■  :.•:  :he  beginning  there 
=  --!--:  -.::  I-T-*-  — "i  H:-. i"  v.rr*  r.--ired.har.ded  giants,  the 
7  ::--?.  -'  ~-=.  7--1--: .:.  izi  G-2j— *j:e  \eir  2j::i  its  three  di\isioiis. 
7*.    7.-1- r    ::      z^^-.tr-^      .ire    -e  5m^*5:    tr.e  days  (and  nights), 

'.  -.Lf.  -:  -  *  -fc  1  i  I--Lrt-5  -E-is  r-zi=i:ne'i  i'//.  i.  402),  is  the 
T.     :=-  .     "i    .:   i      r'i:  ii^ir: 7 e-i  ill  her  :za::r  children,  however, 

-  : -:  -i-  ■    :r/  .:  :-iT  -etzt  ;r=::r:jL,  eice^:  the  short-lived 

A.  ■-    .  -j.      7'- :  : J  :r  e^i:*^  :f  :he  chllire::  cy  Thetis.  Cronus, 

ir  i  : : :  .:  ■  J  -■■:  ::  i:--^  :f  U".e  •  r."  s  cxen  "  <  OJ\ss.  xiL  364)^ 

^:-  1--^  :77»fL-5  ::  re^z^iri  Achi/.e-s  as  an  hist^ncal  or  a 
r:T:.i.-.i:  -  ;r:.  .:  .;^?:  1?  z:  zzrz:..'  ri:  Ach:IIeus"s  short  iiief/^li 
5:5  :--  ■■  "'1:::-:^^  :f :  ■::  t..:.^;  I*-..;  relite,  lie  the  brief  career  of 
i:e  I"?.'  7--7.'.— 1-";  ir.L  Frr-eih.  :3  the  shrrt-Iived  dar  or  time. 
T-i  :-:v  iri  -:..:;  :  _..5  :fe:ei  ye^ir'.y  en  his  Thessalian  tomb 
*:-C^;"5':  ==  -J-?  ::'  L."  r.  ^"-"^ir.i  ::!ne-  The  can}-  children  of  his 
n::::  7";:. 5.  ::-T;i-  .-.i  :;:>i'.-  :?  :he  daughiers  of  Phorcys,  the 
.m;:.:;  :."  Jt:::.?  :'--.  :>ir:-.r^  zii  ::  the  seasonsj,  the  oxen  of  the 
*;:.-  N:w  L.  :-.=<;  5^~  ::  S:  -c:h:r.^  ru:  ancient  and  simple  con- 
*-*7:  :r?  :f '-— :  -  .-iirrV.  5--irn:.  the  divs  cfihe  vear. 

A:-    i-?5  i-T*     ::   •  m-:5.'   :he   Myrmidones,  are  the  armj  of 

*  :.*:,:•?      ::  K  "j   I-:*ii  ir.i  Fnu  Hirke,  the  sezen  wonderful 

-.  ^5      :   :.:  :*-   '.  ^'.:  >.;::.  Y.t.L  k:75  ani  recalls  to  life:  and  the 

:-:•;;;    :.    *  -:.:?       .:       -:.::  '    vii:   :':i:?x   the   day-god,   ApoUon 

^:v.--i_^. 

!:'  :>;  :;■;..*;:  I:  .\:i  \\v,  z.'.'.  :he  i"::ve  unexrl2.ined  animals  are 
:.";  .i--.?  ::  :>:  ■  :.-:  r:  —iv  rr.i  :he  J^ys  :r.  m  unmistakable  form  in 
:-r  :":.,*▼■-;  r.y:'^  I:  .5  :':-r.i  ;=::=;  uie  Soubbas,  of  the  modem 
>!i<>::x*ur:-u*  :s.i  z'.zz^'.y  j'-.:^s  us  ir.i'L  as  in  the  Dactylesand 
V'.--':'."^  r:.v:"->.  :>:  i;.vj  were  5:n:e::ries  conceived  of  as  forming 
!"-e  rrziTNi  .:"  :.^.i  "  >...-.:  ::'  :'~e  week  cr  year.  The  first  creatmes^ 
:'?  Ss:u':'r.i5  s^y.  "ah"  cir..i  ju:  cf  :he  hand  cf  the  Deity  1  .\Iaha) 
we:^  M.-r>Fili:rcu:h.^  .-.r.i  h:<  j::c  subjects.     These  last,  as  the 

-  ■■•  .■  ■«!. 

run'^^r  k«>f».  >..«  ^  >,  ^..c  ..5.  — * >  *. »  -  .?  *?.%•  ^ ear. 

■  5,:ir.  .V.-.':,-.-^  iv  i".*i.v.-:  [Tuis^  iSSo.\  p.  35. 


Myths  of  the  Stars,  Light,  and  Tims.        501 

The  "  hand  "  nr  foot  is  found  personified  in  Blackfoot  of  Argos 
{Melampus};  the  Irish  Blackhand  (Dd-dubh,  orDubhdae);  Good- 
hand  (Dagdae);  and  the  German  "Doctor  Hand"  (Faust).  The 
enchaoter  Manandln  (a  lengthened  form  equivalent  to  Mongin  and 
Finiin,  and  meaning  "  My-little-Find  ")  is  again  son  of  Greathand 
(Alddid).  The  wonderful  oxen  of  Melampus ' ;  the  magic  revivescent 
•wine  (and  horses)  of  Dd-dubh,  Dagdae,  and  Manandan,  the  scholars 
of  Doctor  Faustus,  are  all  the  days. 


M.istet  Fau&lus,  Tccy  good  vatin. 
Whipped  bis  scholars  now  and  than  ; 
When  he  whipped  them  he  made  them  dance 
Out  of  Scotland  joto  France  .  .  . 
With  a  black  bonnet  and  a  white  ^noQl.' 
Stand  yc  there,  for  ye  ate  out. 
My  Lord  Ptovo',  my  Lord  Piovo', 
Where  shall  this  poor  Icllow  go  ?  etc 


I 


In  other  Scotch  rhymes  we  meet  Bloody  Tom,  in  English  rhymes 
ruel  Tom,  carrying  off  the  children  one  by  one,  and  the  devouring 
R-^ibin-lhe-bobbin.  Bloody  Tom  is  Thumbling,  the  shortest  day, 
■*"-  Thomas.  Bloody  Jack,  the  Shrewsbury  Bluebeard,'  is  either  the 
'•OOgesi  day  (Nativity  of  the  Baptist,  June  24)  or  December  27 
CS.  John  the  Evangelist).  The  wives  of  Barbe-rouge,  in  a  Breton 
*^T5ion  of  Bluebeard,  are  seven  in  number — the  days  of  the  week. 
■*he  magician  in  black  and  white  is  thus  pied  in  allusion  to  light  and 
^^jkness.  In  the  related  myth  of  Circe,  which  we  explain  below, 
'*>€  piebald  trait  is  found  in  the  moly,  "a  magic  herb  with  a  black 
*Oflt  and  white  blossom,"  *  and  in  the  white  ram  and  black  ewe 

The  "  hand "  or  "  foot "  in  many  cases  is  the  week  or  year, 
The  ancient  week  seems  sometimes  to  have  consisted  (as  in  Persia 
*lld  Scandinavia)  of  five,  sometimes  of  nine  days,  as  well  as  of  seven. 
*  he  hero  of  this  family  is  the  thumb,  personified  in  the  English 
children's  rhyme  addressed  to  the  fingers,  "Dance,  Thumbltin,  dance," 
•Ic*    The  Lord  Provost  and  his  fatal  sentence,  or  the  magician 

Apollodotus,  i,  13-13. 

So  "  Woollcy  Forsler's "  cow  is  "  black  and  while  about  the  mou " 
(Chambers).  Faust's  piebnld  cow  and  the  piebald  Apis  and  Minotaur  seem 
Booceplions  of  the  animal  figuring  in  all  myths  of  daiy  and  ajghl  aod  lime — Ursa 
tlBJOT,  the  seven  star^ 

•  Radnlphas  de  Diceto.  Barham  has  a  wcll-ltnown  burlesque  Tersion. 
Itobin-the- bobbin  is  connected  in  Anglo-Welsh  rhymes  with  S.  Stephen's  Day 
(December  z6).     Compare  Bloody  Thursday  (the  Holy  Innocents,  December  aS). 

Liddell  and  Scolt,  i.  v. 

{ffntry  Rkjima,  Camden  edil,,  p.  204. 


I 


Tkt  GaUlanatis  Afagazme. 


J 


■X  (dn)  to  leave,  but  getting  only  his 
htX  aHode  to  Ac  deaih  oT  the  da>-s.     Bo-peep's  sbeep  leavib; 
Klhecr  **  taih  "  V*mmT  are  ag^  eiilier  the  da^-s  or  the  stars  ;  and  [ie 
I  Acep  of  the  Cydopa;  and  tfaoac  of  P^murgeJ 

For  ike  lerirescatt  figs  or  goats  we  meet  a  single  wonderful  goa^ 
w,  or  die  likc^  ifaa  and  lesasciuted.     In  every  case  this  seem) 
\  IB  be  Um  Uajoc 

We  bare  ptMDted  oot  above  that  the  "  ants  **  led  by  Achilleui  an 
I  a  inyA  of  ihe  days, — a  like  trun  with  Hennes  and  his  ghosts  (ofia 
i,  ai  Uaties,  Nymph^  White  Women,  or  even  Dreams,  ttI^ 
■nX  "^^  ^"^  occnning  in  many  myths  of  a  wonderful  tone 


ig  ms  Ikat  pips  plafed 
VTbo  iH  tbe  Hwad  rats  befiaj-ed 
To  diace  MotiKo  lo  his  sonod, 
Wuhoot  r^irding  rc«I  «i  ^oand, 
■nil  they  weie  in  the  Weser  dtowneil. 
Tkai  su  Kore  Hunmel  children  led 
Into  stull  ibu  opened, 
To  duMx  uDto  bis  pipe  below, 
VThst  tunc  or  where,  DO  moitalj  know. 


i(OMiP 


Instead  of  attts  (Achilleus  myth),  snine  (Circe),  children  (( 
Crom,  Moloch,  Pied  PiperX  badgers  (Labrad  Lone,  Frau  HuH 
oxen  (of  Helios),  the  da)-s  of  the  year  occasionally  occur  as  bitd^ 
and  it  is  as  birds  that  they  are  slaughtered  by  Cii-Chulaind  As 
birds,  again,  may  be  personified  the  hours  of  the  day,  or  days  of  ite 
month,  in  the  child's  rhyme  or  riddle  about  four-and- twenty  bliwi- 
birds  (or  uiagpies)  baked  in  a  pie.  "  When  the  pie  was  opened  llK 
birds  began  to  sing," — as  the  birds  do  at  daybreak.^  The  fact  bw 
stimulated  mythopccic  fancy  in  Melanesia,  where  Qat,  a  hero  of" 
light,  the  course  of  the  months  and  year,  brings  on  the  daybi 
inuoducing  birds  which  announce  it  by  their  song. 


,[^« 


THE  WHITE  MERCHANT— BRENDAN. 

There  are  several  famous  navigators  in  Celtic  legend,  MinauM" 
(=Find),   the  ■\Vhite   Merchant  (Ceannaidhe   Fionn),   PartolafluSi 

'  Borrowed  fiom  Folcrgo.  Rabelais  himself  remait^  the  above  ainW 
("en  patcille  forme  que  les  moutons  de  Polyphemus  le  boi^e  Cyclope"J.  1" 
*ery  necessary  lo  guard  against  exclusive  in teip relations  of  nijUls,  Bc«i«'''' 
light  and  darknesi — the  peep  of  day— and  perhaps  the  hiding  Echo,  Bo-f*P 
suK^ts  such  Slat-names  as  "Peepity-peep "  and  Siodisa  stmtra  (bubule*''* 
slcUa),  the  evening  star.  It  had  this  name,  Grimm  snya  {ii,  713),  "  beeui*  *• 
iwaini  drove  their  herd  home  when  it  appeared." 

'  Dr.  Tylor  has  suEEested  such  an  eipUnalion,  only  half  seriously,  IjJ^^ 
ad  extending  it  lo  details.  J^^H 


Myths  of  the  Stars,  Light,  and  Time.        503 

Saint  Brend^,  Prince  Madoc(or  the  Dog?  %  Labrad  the  Mariner  (who 
is  also  a  dog  hero),  and  Brecdn,  who  has  given  name  to  Corryvreckan. 

The  legend  of  Saint  Brendan  begins  exactly  as  the  inedited  tale 
of  the  Ceannaidhe  Fionn  begins,  with  the  recital  of  wonderful 
adventures,  and  three  denials  of  their  truth  by  one  of  the  company, 
followed  by  further  voyages  undertaken  to  prove  them  true.  The 
Sindibad  story  has  also  analogies  with  this.  Even  so  careless  a  writer 
as  Caesar  Otway  suggests  (with  reason,  as  we  think)  that  Saint 
Brendin's  three  ships  and  the  three  swans  (or  daughters)  of  Ler  are 
identical.^  So  Colonel  Moor,  in  the  midst  of  much  wild  speculation, 
perceives  a  true  relation  between  the  tricolor  or  trifoliate  lotus  of  the 
Indian  Thumbling  and  the  shamrock,  associated  with  Brenddn  and 
the  Irish  Thumbling,  Find.^  S.  Brendan's  famous  "  goats  "  suggest 
the  360  **  swine  "  of  Odysseus.  The  Belt,  "  Merchant's  Rod,"  or 
**S.  Peter's  Staff"  recalls  both  the  beggarman's  staff  of  Odysseus  and 
atitffon  wen,  or  white  staff,  of  the  Welsh  Odysseus,  Einion  son  of 
GwalchmaL* 

Odysseus  appeared  in  nurchanfs  garb  before  King  Lycomedes. 
Einion's  white  staff  is  called  z.  pilgrim's  staff,  and  it  is  owned  by  the 
White  Man.  We  might  trace  the  recurrence  of  these  conceptions  in 
romantic  legend, — the  White  Pilgrim,  White  Merchant  (already 
mentioned),  the  White  Tyrant,  the  White  Fisherman,  the  Red  Fisher- 
man, the  Ancient  Mariner,  Charon,  the  Wandering  Jew,  Goodman 
Misery. 

These  are,  of  course,  figures  differing  in  many  traits  \  but  all  seem, 
in  one  way  or  another,  to  be  myths  of  Time  and  the  eternal  march  of 
the  daily  light.  Even  the  star  myths  have  often  such  a  relation.  The 
hunter  Orion  may  be  compared  with  Time  as  a  hunter  in  Straparola's 
riddle  ;  *  Orion  old  and  blind  seems  a  myth  of  the  darkening  year ; 
his  unexplained  name  suggests  the  course  of  the  seasons  (Jipac) ; 
and  his  Belt  figures  in  time  myths.®  The  blinding  of  Orion  is  the 
blinding  of  another  time-devouring  giant,  the  Cyclops. 

THE  THREE  MOTHERS, 

The  Three  Mothers,  to  whom  the  western  legionaries  paid  such 

*  Compare  Pughe,  s,  v,  madawg,     Matoc  is  the  older  form. 

*  Erris  and  TyrawUy^  loi  ». 

*  Oriental  Fragments,  The  identity  of  Find  and  his  magical  thumb  with 
Vishnu  or  Brahma,  floating  on  the  pipala  leaf  and  sucking  creation  or  time  out  of 
his  thumb,  was  observed  by  M.  Liebrecht  {Gerv.  von  Tilbury^  156).  Find  or 
Brendan  floats  on  a  flag,  sometimes  on  a  leaf.  The  Red  Indian  Eve  came  out 
(tf  the  man's  thumb.  ^  lolo  MSS.  176. 

*  French  edition,  I.  169.  '  Compare  the  three  Angers  of  Ormuzd* 


504  The  Gentiemans  Magazine. 

honour,  are  the  Three  Fates  ;  and  are  again  the  French  Durj 
godmothers,  '*  nos  Bonnes  M^res  les  Fees."  Now  these  aiedteQ/u/; 
prestnU  tf«^  future  time.  So  the  Good  People  are,  now  the  souk  of 
deai  people,  now,  as  we  could  show  by  the  plentiful  evidence,  the  dead 
dajs  (as  Mliiie  Women  or  the  like).  ^\lien  these  dead  ot  immomi 
Uliite  Women  cany  In-ing  people  with  them,  ^  or  substitute  one  of 
themselves  for  a  li\ing  person,  it  seems  to  be  a  myth  of  the  stealing 
a«ay  of  the  li\*ing  or  present  days  by  time 

That  here  again  primitive  imagination  knew  how  to  coordiDate 
crrhs  of  the  seven  days,  or  three  periods  of  tim«  or  the  year,  widi 
SGch  stain-  ngures  as  the  se-.-en  stars  of  the  Wain,  or  the  three  of  the 
BelL  is  shown  by  the  following  example.  The  three  gift-bringing 
Fires  inswer  to  the  do\-e  sisters.  Oeno,  Spermo,  and  Elais,  who  changed 
*\i:  -Jiey  jleased  into  wine,  com,  and  oil.  The  well  of  their  brother 
A-<ir:«  dur;ng  the  Nones  of  January  tasted  like  wine.  Now  the 
Ncces  of  Janom*  arc  the  5th  of  January,  the  eve  of  the  festival  of 
ihe  Three  Kings  (which  probably  has  succeeded  to  pagan  cdcbn- 
i:oc5  < ;  ani  on  the  night  before  this  festi^-al,  according  to  popular 
b^l^ef  :n  Ireland  and  elsewhere,  the  water  is  changed  into  wine.  The 
tr.nse  scstei^  thus  answer  to  the  Three  Kings ;  and  these  are  associated 
yet  *:±  the  Bel:  (les  Trois  Ro)'s). 


THE  SrizISX—HER  RIDDLE-  VIRGILIAN  RIDDLE. 

Tr.ou^h  much  has  been  written  on  the  triform  monster,  the 
S7h-.z\.  lad  her  rcbtions.  the  Chimaera,  Cerberus,  Hecate,  etc,  it 
will  r.:v:  v^  derJ.ed  that  no  satisfactory  explanation  has  been  -^ 
r«:;^.ied.*  Ye:  anaquiiy  seems  to  have  handed  down  to  us  the 
exrlamiio::  :r.  two  fonns.  One  is  the  Sphinx's  own  riddle,  which,  as 
racss  readers  know,  relates  to  the  three  ages  of  man's  life.  The 
Kix^fTO  winged  devouring  creature  is  swift  devouring  Time  ilselli 
pose  piesent,  and  future. 

The  Sphinx  b  especially  an  Egyptian  monster.  Now  what 
expSjLUUOQ  does  Macrobius  give  of  the  Sphinxes  or  Cerberi  of 
AlexmdrjL  ?  *'  To  the  image  (of  Serapis)  they  add  that  of  a  three- 
beaded  animal,  which  in  the  middle  and  largest  head  represents  a 
lioQ  ;  on  the  right  rises  the  head  of  a  fawning  dog ;  the  left-hand 
Deck  ends  in  the  head  of  a  ravenous  wolf"    To  these  were  added 

*  Ccttpare  th«  Ilud,  iL  302,  where  the  '*  Fates  of  death  "  cmrry  off  men  as 

*  Tlt»  EUcv>a  exf4uncd  the  Sphinx  to  be  Science.  Sir  George  Cox  makes 
b<:  :^  «t.>m-clc>(sd  \Mrtk$L^^^  I.  222). 


Myths  of  the  Stars,  Light,  and  Time.        505 

ll»  fotdi  of  a  dragon.  "  By  the  lion's  head  is  represented  the 
JwcscDi  time ;  ...  the  past  time  is  signified  by  the  head  of  a 
■olf;  ...  the  image  of  a  fawning  hound  represents  the  event  of 
Ibe  Haltering  future."  '  Such  an  enpSanation  is  of  the  highest  value, 
for  it  shows  that  the  meaning  of  the  strange  symbol  was  yet  known 
V  Egyptian  priests  in  Macrobius's  lime  (the  beginning  of  the  fifth 
century). 

The  Indian  triad  (Trimurti)  belongs  to  our  class  ;  and  has  already 
I  been  explained  as  signifying  "the  three  periods  of  human  life."'  If 
Space  permitted  the  inquiry  we  should  find  like  explanations  for  the 
old  Gallic  three-headed  divinity  ;  for  Geryon  ;  and  probably  for  the 
mysterious  Three  De  Danann  of  the  ancient  Irish.  The  Sphinx 
rajay  from  another  side  be  a  monster  shutting  up  the  waters— as  the 
mythical  dragons  are,  now  time,  darkness  and  storm  monsters,  now 
*«^ater  serpents.^ 

Damoetas,  in  Virgil's  third  Eclogue  (104-105),  sets  the  following 
•'i<f  die ;— 

Die  quibus  io  lerris — ct  eri»tiiihi  niBgnus  Apallo — 
Trii  paleat  caeli  Epaliam  non  amplius  ulnas. 
^^  o  very  satisfactory  answer  has  been  found  for  this,  which,  looking 
*^*^  Vergilius's  name*  and  origin,  may  really  be  an  old  Celtic  riddle.  The 
*  three  ells"  in  the  sky  may  be  compared  with  several  names  for 
^^-^riou's  Belt,  in  which  we  find  a  measure  of  length,  sometimes  an  ell, 
^«id  sometimes  triplicated  (from  the  number  three  of  the  stars)  : 
*  Maui's   Elbow"  (New  Zealand),  the  "  Lady's   EU"  (Westmeath), 
"*  the  Yard,"  i.e.  three  feet  (Westmeath),    "  Three-make-a-fathom  " 
1  Madagascar).     The  "  hand  "  fancy  is  triplicated  in  the  three-handed 
^-iecate. 

NAMES  OF  THE  THREE  K[NGS-^At!ACRAMS~LES  TROIS 

MO  USQ  UE  TA  IRES. 
The  names  of  the   Dactyles  were  a  safeguard  against  things 
i  beared.     In  the  middle  ages  the  legendary  names  of  the  Three  Kings 
:  potent  in  many  ways,  e.g.  as  a  charm  against  the  falling 
]  tickness. 

■  Salumilia,  i.  la. 

■  "Das  game  Bild  slelli  die  dtei  Leiiensaller  de?  Mcnschcn  dar."  Rhode, 
Hytkahgii  dtr  tiindui,  1.  311. 

■  The  Russian  dtagoD  retains  his  piiinilive  diaraclet.  Till  the  hero  (a  male 
Ceod/illoD  or  Thumbling)  killed  him,  "theie  was  never  any  day,  but  always 
night."  On  his  dealh  "immediately  there  was  bright  light  thioughout  the  whole 
lend  "  (Ralslon,  67,  68).    The  Iiish  lime  monsters  g't  new  life  wllh  the  beeimuDg 

<  Zeuss,  Crammatim  CiUUn,  86,  766.  ^^H 


5o6  The  Gentlemafis  Alagazint. 

The  Dutchmen  of  the  Cape  swear  by  the  Three  Kings  of  Cologne, 
elevating  the  middle  finger  of  the  right  hand.  This  suggests  die 
ihrcc-fingered  hand.  Ononis  Belt ;  and  we  are  renunded  of  the 
coordination  of  images  in  the  beginning  of  the  old  Alsatian  soog, 
recently  reprinted  by  M.  Weckerlin,  "  Es  fiihrt  drey  Konig  Qftta 
Handy 

In  two  curious  cases  the  names  of  the  Kings,  which  are  very 
various,  have  been  disguised  in  anagrams. 

1.  The  common  charm  (it  sets  and  keeps  people  dancing, as dse- 
where  the  names  of  the  Three  Kings  were  potent  against  fatigue  of 

tr.ivcl)    SATOR    ARKPO    TENET    OPERA     ROTAS.        With    this    nonSCDSC 

(which  reads  alike  back  and  forwards,  and  must  be  written  with 
Mood,  a  iiuill,  etc.,  from  three  different  animals)  compare  the  names 
Atcr^  Satc^r^  and  Paratoras  or  PinatoraSy  for  the  Three  Kings. 

2.  Dumas  seems  to  have  borrowed  the  names  of  his  three  heroes, 
••Athos,"  "Porthos,"  and  "Aramis,"  either  directly  from  Dupuis 
xOrigint  d(  Tons  Us  CulUs^vix,  163),  who  gives  the  names  .-/Mm, 
ParatoraSy  Saraim  (Aramis),  or  from  some  French  popular  tnditioo. 
Although  the  former  is  the  more  likely  source,  yet  we  find  in  Ireland 
the  popular  talc  of  the  Three  Wise  Brothers,  servants  of  Solomon, 
who  suggest  the  stars  called  after  the  Three  Wise  Kings. 

MEL  USINE. 

Our  conclusions  on  this  famous  myth,  the  subject  of  a  recent 
work  by  M.  I  )csaivre,*  would  be  shortly  as  follow  : — 

1.  In  the  Icelandic  version  the  name  is  Me/adnaJ^  An  older 
French  form  is  Mfriusine?  These  suggest  Mater  Lucina  as  the 
original  form. 

2.  The  triplications  in  the  romance,  three  sister  witches,  three 
eyes  of  her  son,  or  the  like,  must  be  compared  ynih  the  three  mother 
goddesses,  the  Romano-Gallic  Fates,  the  "  three  Lucinae "  of  in- 
scriptions, with  the  triform  Hecate  (= Lucina),  and  many  Time 
myths  where  a  triplication  occurs.  The  determinant  of  this  triple 
conception  may  wtry  well  be  the  three -starred  Belt  of  Orion. 

3.  M^usine's  son  "  Urien "  or  "  Uriens "  we  shall  find  to  be 
Orion.  His  Dace,  we  read,  was  *'  full  short  and  large  in  travers,  on 
ey  was  rede,  another  grey  dyvers."  *     This  description  suggests  the 

1  M.  Desaivre*s  condasions  arc  indicated  by  the  title  of  his  interesting  booV, 
If  Mytkt  dtla  Mht  Ltuime,  6^*.  (Saint-Maixent,  1883). 

*  Btrinu^,  ed.  Skeat,  p.  t. 

*  Kochtley  cites  this  (F.  Af.  481). 

*  ^^F^m^^  ed.  Skeat,  46, 


me.        507        I 


Myiks  0/  (he  Stars,  Li^ht,  and  Time. 

Cyclops  or  Trimmatos  (Three-eyes),'  a  time-giant,  like  Orion  him- 
self. Alanus  de  Insulis  explains  Orion's  name  as  "  Orion  quasi 
Urion,"  etc 

4.  M^usine's  change  to  serpent  shape  on  a  Saturday  is  the  same 
thing  as  the  dragon  claiming,  in  a  Breton  popular  tale,  a  victim  every 
Saturday.*  It  is  a  myth  of  the  death  of  tlie  iveek.  Mother  Lucina 
may  further  be  compared  with  "  Holy  Mother  Friday,"  "  Holy 
Mother  Wednesday,"  ^  "  Jack  Thursday,"  *  "  Man  Friday,"  "  Chance 
Sunday,"  "Saint  Monday" — all,  we  could,  wc  believe,  show, 
F'^fsonified  days. 

There  may  have  been  a  local  Gallic  fay  to  whom  Mother  Lucina 
succeeded — like  MaeMn,  who  lives  in  a  river  rock  neat  Newmarket 
(<-ork),  "  Moll  Downey,"  in  an  eddy  at  Malalude,  and  Libin  at 
'nore  places  than  one  on  the  west  coast, 

OLD  WELSH  STAR  LEGENDS. 
The  explanation  of  the  Arthur,  or  Artiis,  or  Arth  myth  is  con- 
fined in  the  name,  in  which  we  can  see  nothing  but  Arktos  (the 
■"ear),  Arditnis,  and  the  probably  cognate  or  borrowed  Celtic  word 
a'"/  ("a  bear").  It  was  not  forgotten  in  Wales  itself,  for  Southeyquotes 
^e  explanation  from  Owen,  "  Arthur  is  the  Great  Bear,  as  the  name 
^ctTjally  implies"  (Pref.  to  History  of  Arthur,  p.  3}.  This  true 
Solution  was  found  also  by  the  author  of  the  article  A iit/<juiiies  of 
■^f^TStry  Literahtrt,  in  the  Quarterly  Reviau  (Vol.  xxi.  No.  41,  p-  93) ; 
ariii  by  Nork  in  his  Mythology  of  Popular  Tales  (p.  70) ;  though  it 
^cems  to  have  escaped  the  Welsh  scholars  of  our  day. 

The  bear  and  ragged  staff  of  the  ancient  house  of  Warwick  suggest 
'Wo  btarry  figures,  the  northern  Bear  and  the  "staff"  of  Saint  Peter 
^lid  many  others, — Orion's  Bell.  Here  too  we  have  a  link  in  the 
chain  which  "  binds  the  sturdy  Bear  "  (as  Drayton  says)  to  Arthur. 
■^  ■vtriler  in  the  Folk-lore  Journal,  1885,  cites  the  tradition  "  1*^(7/ .^/-M, 
*"C  first  Earl  of  Warwick,  adopted  the  bear  as  a  rebus  on  his  name  " 
f  P-  87).  Nor  would  it  be  a  very  hopeless  task  to  identify  the  nniltirorm 
Animal  with  the  Dun  Cow  of  other  old  Warwick  legends,* 

Compare  the  represenlalion  of  the  broad-faced  and  three-eyed  Cyclops  in  the 
'■*'k  bronze  head  in  the  Brilish  Museum,  eugrnved  by  the  lalesl  iranslalors  of 
"^^0,|yssey. 

Cambry,  Finittirt  en  1794  tt  1795,  I.  173. 
'   Ralston,  A'.^f.T' 200  siiq. 
JIant  Dantterslag,  Mullenhoff,  p,  578. 
Compare  the  I^ncashire  Dun  Horse ;  and  the  dun  sow  (Phaea)  of  Cio  my 


.i.°*^erotthe  Calydonian  Boar.     Dupuis  rightly  sees  in  this  1m1  another  fo, 


"  <:«lestial  Bear. 


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.  i*.-./.  '■isre  i«.  these  iiises 


Myths  of  the  Stars,  Light,  and  Time.       509 

Fawn")  is  an  Irish  Pan.     Now  Pan  is  the  son  of  Callisto,  and 
Callisto  is  a  known  myth  of  the  Great  Bear. 

Mj  original  country 

Is  the  region  of  the  summer  stars  .  .  . 

I  know  the  names  of  the  stars 

Of  the  North  and  the  South ; 

I  have  been  on  the  Galaxy  .  .  . 

'  was  in  Llys  Don  (the  Welsh  name  for  Cassiopeia)  .  . 

I  have  been  for  three  periods 

ia  the  court  of  Arianrhod  (Corona  Borealis)  .  .  . 

I  have  been  ¥dth  my  Lord 

In  the  manger  of  the  Ass  (star  of  Bethlehem). 

I  strengthened  Moses 

Through  the  waters  of  Jordan  ("Moses's  Rod,"  "Aaron's  Staff,"  is  the  Belt). 

I  have  been  in  the  firmament.* 

DAVID   FITZGERALD. 


^  iNiblished  by  Stephens,  Literature  of  the  Cymry,  in  the  Mabinogion,  and 


The  Gentleman's  Magazim 


SCIENCE    NOTES. 


John  Isaac  Hawkins  and  BttAiy-GROwTiL 

ON  reading  the  published  accounts  of  the  history  of  ihe  uses  a 
iridium  m  ■Che  Journal  of  tkt  Soeiety  oj  Arts,  &:c.,  IfindlTj 
many  names  are  mentioned,  but  one  is  omitted,  although  that  on^ 
the  most  deserving  of  remembrance.  The  first  who  applied  iridi-  - 
to  iiractical  use,  who  learned  how  to  solder  it  to  gold  and  pbtinunt,  h^ 
to  slit  it  into  double  nibs  when  thus  soldered  to  the  body  of  g^ 
and  platinum  pens,  was  John  Isaac  Hawkins.  I  knew  him  well  m^ 
than  forty  years  ago,  bought  oneof  his  platinum  pens  with  iridium  n 
(then  sold  at  a  guinea  each),  and  used  it  for  many  years  without  a:_ 
sensible  wear,  but  finally  lost  it. 

He  was  a  wonderfully  prolific  inventor,  was  a  martyr  to  inveniS 
genius ;  ever  at  work  upon  new  inventions,  some  of  which  fotmX- 
the  fortunes  of  others,  but  none  of  them  yielded  much  to  hiras^ 
His  share  was  comparative  poverty,  amply  compensated  by  th* 
intense  enjoyment  of  life  only  known  to  the  enthusiast,  and  whL  * 
mere  money  cannot  purchase. 

We  are  indebted  to  him  for  our  everpoinled  pencil  cases,  the  first 
the  manifold  writers  and  letter-copying  apparatus,  besides  other  nun 
utilities  that  are  now  accepted  as  matters  of  course. 

When  I  knew  him  he  was  secretary  of  "  The  Anthropologic:^ 
Society" — not  the  present  society  bearing  that  name,  but  the.origiiK^ 
society,  which  met  at  the  Hunterian  Museum  in  Windmill  Street,  whfc^ 
the  building  still  remained  as  Hunter  left  it  It  is  now  a  French  c^* 
and  restaurant,  the  "Cafi!  de  I'Etoile." 

I  was  "in  at  the  death"  of  this  society,  remained  lo  the  la^- 
when  our  meetings  usually  consisted  of  the  honorary  three  officers—  — 
Dr.  John  Epps  president,  J.  I.  Hawkins  secretary,  and  mj-self  curator  * 
"  a  trinity  in  unity  and  unity  in  trinity,"  as  Dr.  Epps  used  to  descnS' 
the  assembly 

One  of  the  objects  of  the  society  was  to  study  the  growth  of  t: — * 
brain.  ^Ve  had  already  ascertained  that  the  head  continues  growi^^ 
long  after  the  growth  of  the  body  ceases,  but  how  ?    Is  the  direcli"^^ 


Science  Notes.  5 1 1 

of  growth  determined  by  the  pursuits  and  culture  of  the  owner  ?  In 
order  to  answer  this  question  each  member  on  entering  the  society 
brought  with  him  a  cast  of  his  head,  and  a  statement  of  his  business 
pursuits  and  general  mode  of  life.  Seven  or  ten  years  afterwards 
another  cast  was  to  have  been  taken,  another  confession  recorded, 
and  the  casts  carefully  compared.  This  to  be  repeated  at  further 
intervals. 

Hawkins  was  enthusiastic  in  this  as  in  many  other  heresies.  He 
was  a  Swedenborgian,  and  a  great  deal  besides.  He  not  only 
presented  the  cast  of  his  own  head  and  a  full  and  characteristic 
autobiography  to  the  society,  but  on  the  death  of  his  wife  pre- 
sented her  cast  with  similar  particulars,  and  a  curious  account  of  his 
courtship. 

It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  the  society  died.  By  this  time 
very  interesting  data  would  have  been  supplied  had  its  members 
been  numerous  and  the  above  object  fully  carried  out.  I  can  prove 
remarkable  growth  of  the  head  of  one  of  its  members. 


Geological  Common  Things. 

ONE  of  the  defects  of  most  geological  museums,  regarded  as 
educational  collections,  is  that  the  specimens  are  too  good  ; 
far  too  perfect  to  represent  what  the  student  is  likely  to  find  if  he 
goes  afield.  This  is  sometimes  disheartening,  and  may  be  even 
deceptive. 

Take  for  example  the  iron- ores  displayed  in  the  Museum  of 
Economic  Geology  in  Jermyn  Street.  A  student  having  practical 
or  "economic*'  objects  in  view,  and  going  there  to  study,  would 
obtain  from  the  general  average  of  the  specimens  exhibited  quite  a 
false  idea  of  the  general  average  character  of  the  existing  and  practically 
worked  ironstones. 

I  do  not  advocate  the  abolition  of  the  display  of  exceptionally 
fine  specimens,  but  that  somewhere  side  by  side  with  them  there 
should  be  exhibited  some  rough  average  working  samples  of  what  is 
actually  tipped  into  the  throats  of  our  blast  furnaces. 

The  like  with  other  minerals  and  with  fossils. 

I  made  this  suggestion  long  ago  when  teaching  metallurgical 
chemistry  to  Birmingham  artisans,  and  am  reminded  of  it  now  by 
Dr.  Taylor's  book  on  "  Our  Common  British  Fossils,  and  where  to 
find  them,"  which  is  intended  to  help  the  beginner  by  explaining 
what  he  may  actually  find,  rather  than  what  he  may  possibly  find  if 


Tki  OcK'kmafCs  Magazine. 

TL-i?^  t-rr:in;e,  Xot  only  public  miiscJins 
^::a  i='f  b-:-:k«.  roiT  deceive  and  disheartf 

\^:r-.^.  ■*'-.:■  hi*  not   b«en  behind  the  s 
■z:^  •r.:.^--i\J.  col^ecior  collects. 
:;  --ir.-il   :-   ns^^.-Law  the    particular  sped 
■;    "-t   -.i^Tzir  c:    The    collector,  bul  this 

-r^  I  -  '".  ;^ia.~-  ^  raiiway  cutting  or  other 
;  -  .  — TT.-r  ;:«s  i:ere.  jicks  out  an  intelligcn 
:■-:  -.■:*:'.?  ij  T>.e  Masting  or  picking  pr( 
:;  -;c  «.:>  fr-ii  la  r.iiny  cases,  or  I  ma 
:.-;    T^i^-.—-z^  z^.'t  r.a^-vies  who  already  und 

;-  "■;  .;■;*  :-:  ;::i  a'lle  lo  make  a  shrewd  ■ 
L-i  ::  »■■-•  --fv  ~T.L  One  of  these  in  the 
:■_:  7:!r;  i^-  ar.  aver:L;e  do^ea  of  Kientifici 

•   :.iri  j:   discrli-ci  the  cliret-coloured  roc 

;  ;  T r^ih  fossil  il*  r_in;e  has  no  etyraofogica 
:;-  'v-Ji  s  ifrr^i  f^=;  tha:  of  Professor  Oldh; 

;jr- ;  ::' sari  -ai;;-.iance  "  1  may  mentio 
— ;  :c  •  :arr.  ::  ;-<:;:  cne  hundred  and  fi I 
"~^~;  re  :ie  Shuih  Association,  made  a 
•-.T  Hjii  1=  5T.';  of  the  Dumcrous  ham 
:?  U  -.\Zr^  irz^  rsce-:  blasting,  only  twc 
■i-s  :':-j^?i,  i^i  thtse  iu:  doubtful  mark 
:  -■;  -.ai—  f:-e: .i^i.tni  ir:d  book  pictures. 


E'.T-tH  /.'.-.StS  >J"i  i*i~  rather  abundant  cf  bte 
-.riT,-  r;:  ■'-  i.>:2-:  ir-:3  _?.  Those  who  base 
.---cr.vj- ir£  C?."  'r--^  ■:.-r..-i_rT:;,":s  on  the  rery  nebuloi 
r 'T-Jc'Ms-Si.  ztL  u.kt  ;:  fv-c  ^Tir.;ed.  as  a  matter  of  course 
■.r;  ;sv-rM  :i  c.v'.tl^  CJwr:  xz  a  State  of  quiescent  deati 
*."t  T'rKiririr.;  cc  eanh^^iiies,  volcanoes,  and  other  sub 
:.-;  i-.r»  :^  «:.:sao»&  outbreaks  of  the  residual  slowly  fadii 
zi.  this  3^Kh:?!d  worid. 

T::»  i«-n;.  f?r  a  season,  the  prex-ailing  theory,  it  is  not  i 
;r^:  3  rlva;  thewry.  whidi  attributes  earthquake  phenomen 
ctenulV  renewable  activi^,  should  be  neglected. 

About  1 5  j'eais  ago  Mr.  Varley,  the  eminent  practUtU  el 


LJ 


Science  Notes.  513 

observed  some  remarkable  coincidences  between  the  travelling  of 
positive  electrical  disturbances  through  the  transatlantic  cables  (in 
the  construction  and  working  of  which  he  was  concerned),  and  the 
occurrence  of  eaithquake  shocks  in  the  North  of  England. 

These  and  other  observations  led  him  to  suppose  that  some 
earthquake  shocks  are  due  to  subterranean  lightning,  a  rather  startling, 
and  at  first  thought  a  somewhat  paradoxical,  hypothesis.  This  first 
impression  is  strengthened  by  the  nauseating  prevalence  of  the  silly 
practice  of  blindly  attributing  to  electricity  everything  that  is  at  all 
mysterious,  a  practice  that  prevails  in  direct  proportion  to  the  ignor- 
ance of  the  whole  subject. 

Varle/s  speculations  are  totally  different  from  this  sort  of  idle 
prattling  in  mere  words.  He  shows  that  the  outer  crust  of  the 
earth  is  saturated  to  variable  depths  with  water,  and  consequently 
forms  a  shell  or  coating — like  the  tinfoil  of  a  Leyden  jar — which  is  a 
conductor  to  electricity  of  high  tension.  Mr.  Varley  assumes  that 
between  this  and  the  inner  fused  material  of  the  earth  there  exists  a 
layer  of  dry  non-conducting  rock,  corresponding  to  the  glass  of  the 
Leyden  jar. 

Fused  rock  being  a  conductor  the  analogy  to  the  original  Leyden 
jar  is  completed;  there  is  the  inner  conductor,  the  outer  conducting 
film,  and  the  intervening  non-conductor.  I  say  the  "  original " 
Leyden  jar,  as  this  was  filled  with  water  up  to  the  level  of  the  outer 
tinfoil,  the  water  doing  the  work  of  the  inner  coating  of  tinfoil  of  the 
modern  form  of  apparatus. 

What  happens  when  a  Leyden  jar  receives  an  overcharge,  either 
on  its  inner  or  outer  coating?  Simply  a  "disruptive  discharge" 
violently  and  noisily  proceeding  through  the  intervening  glass. 

The  cables  under  Mr.  Varley's  observation  indicated  the  charge 
received  by  the  outer  coating  of  the  terrestrial  apparatus,  and 
assuming  this  to  be  of  sufficient  intensity,  it  must  somewhere,  at  a 
region  of  least  resistance,  break  violently  through  the  dry  solid 
stratum,  which  it  would  do  the  more  easily  seeing  that  this  is 
by  no  means  so  resistant  as  glass. 

I  may  add  that  the  experience  of  coal  and  other  mining  verifies  Mr. 
Varley's  theoretical  assumption  of  the  existence  of  a  dry  and  solid 
substratum ;  below  a  certain  depth  the  water-bearing  strata  are 
passed  and  the  workings  become  dry  and  dusty. 

My  first  experience  of  earthquakes  was  in  the  autumn  of  1842, 
when  making  a  pedestrian  trip  in  the  Highlands,  in  company  with 
two  fellow-students  from  Edinburgh.  On  arriving  at  Crieff  from 
Comrie  we  found  the  people  greatly  alarmed  at  a  shock  they  had  felt 

VOL.  CCLVJII,      NO,  1S53.  N  N 


:;i4  The  Gentleman  s  Ma^ozine. 

abciut  half  an  hour  before,  though  we  had  not  observed  it.  Somewkt 
later,  when  ruunding  Loch  Tay  on  our  ivay  to  Loch  Rannoch.  wt 
were  startled,  not  by  the  trembling  of  the  earth,  which  we  exi^etic^' 
and  ha«!  been  studiously  seeking  to  observe,  but  by  an  uncxjcttrJ 
ri>ar  of  subterranean  thunder,  which  ajipeared  to  commence  alm^u: 
under  o'.ir  feet  and  to  die  away  under  the  distant  mnuntiins.  Thrre 
was  n<»  agitation  of  llie  waters  of  the  lake,  no  shock  that  we  c::"': 
].erf  eive,  lhuu*;h  we  learned  afterwards  that  a  slight  shock  had  lice: 
fe'.l  by  i»eoi»le  indoors. 

'Hie  disproi>oriion  of  the  noise  to  the  tremor  in  this  iniuriCc 
is  better  e\]'lained  by  \"arley's  theory  than  by  any  that  are  rrorc 
j»re\a!ent. 

If  I  remember  rightly,  Mr.  \'arley  did  not  insist  upon  apj-lyir^ 

^\  his  theory  to  the  e.\[)lanation  of  all  earthquakes.     It  certiinly  is  not 

_/  apj»licable    to   tho^e   which   accompany   volcanic    eruptions.     The 

CNplanalion  of  these  is  simple  enough  ;    but   not   so  the  fre-iuent 

tremors  that  have  no  traceable  connection  with  volcanic  action. 

'liie  fact  ilut  this  class  of  earthquake  is  so  much  more  frcq.ient 

jl  in    irojiical   and   subtropical   regions,  where  atmospheric  elcttrical 

**  storms  arc  so  much  more  violent,  favours  Mr.  Varley's  theory.    Ihe 

J  m<ist  active  and  the  greatest  volcanic  focus  fj{  I'urope  is  Iceland. 

♦  b'jr  It  is  not  by  any  means  correspondingly  subject  to  earthquakes. 


D,\kwixiAN  Beef. 

THE  primary  facts  upon  which  Darwin  based  his  argument  on 
the  possibilities  of  natural  selection  were  those  j^resente*!  by 
the  known  results  of  artificial  selection  ;  these  coming  fully  within  the 
grasp  of  human  experience.  Among  those  who  were  the  moat 
sincerely  alarmed  by  the  imagined  subversive  consequences  of  ihc 
Darwinian  heresy  were  our  comfortable  country  squires.  Like  the 
l)criietually  quoted  M.  Jourd:un  and  his  prose,  these  bucolk 
representatives  of  untainted  British  conservatism  were  then,  and  ha  I 
l)ecn  for  some  time  past,  the  most  efficient  and  persistent  of  Darwin's 
supporters  ;  they  were  devoting  their  best  eflbrts  to  demonstrate  the 
fundamental  principle  of  Darwin  s  heresy,  the  mutability  of  s]>ecies  by 
means  of  selective  breeding. 

All  the  cattle  shows,  poultry  shows,   dog  shows,   horse  show?, 

root  shows,  seed  shows,  prize  vegetables  and  flower  shows,  were  and 

ai«  a  series  of  popular  and  triumphant  Darwinian  demonstrations, 

soixily  supported  most  innocently  and  unconsciously  by  those  who 

r -C^ded  Dank-in  as  ambassador-plenipotentiar)'  of  the  devil. 


Science  Notes,  515 

By  the  commercial  evolution  of  any  variation  among  domestic 
animals  and  cultivated  plants  that  the  caprice  of  the  market  may 
demand  they  have  proved  how  utterly  baseless  is  the  old  dogma  of 
the  persistency  of  specific  characters. 

The  report  of  Dr.  Sprague  on  "marbled  beef"  assures  us  that 
cattle-breeders  can  manufacture  this  novelty  if  the  public  will  purchase 
it,  and  speaks  of  rearranging  the  distribution  of  fat  and  lean  as  freely 
as  a  manufacturer  of  wall  papers,  or  a  calico  printer,  may  rearrange 
his  blocks  to  bring  out  new  patterns  for  the  forthcoming  season.  As 
the  Times  remarks :  "  The  stock-yard  has  become  a  sculptor's  studio, 
in  which  living  matter  is  moulded  according  to  the  artist-s  discretion." 

Instead  of  placing  the  fat  of  our  prize  cattle  in  huge  unmanageable 
lumps  «s  heretofore,  we  are  to  have  it  regularly  interlarded  with  the 
muscular  fibres  and  fascicules,  forming  marbled,  riband-patterned, 
streaky  beef ;  and  this  is  to  be  effected  by  scientific  feeding,  and  the 
survival  of  the  fittest :  by  faithful  and  vigorous  application  of  Dar- 
winian principles. 

The  Times  tells  us  that  "  the  most  splendid  marbling  is  as  fleeting 
as  beauty  in  general,  and  will  not  survive  discomforts,"  that  the 
marbled  cattle  must  not  be  subjected  to  the  hardships  of  a  sea  voyage, 
and,  therefore,  we  must  do  our  marbling  at  home.  This  conclusion, 
however,  is  liable  to  serious  modification  now  that  the  problem  of 
importing  slaughtered  meat  in  prime  condition  has  been  practically 
solved. 

The  Constitution  of  Clouds. 

«  J/ESICULAR  VAPOUR''  is  a  term  that  still  remains  in 
scientific  treatises.  It  expresses  the  assumption  that  clouds 
and  the  white  cloudy  matter  artificially  produced  when  steam  is  ejected 
into  the  air  are  composed  of  minute  vesicles  like  soap  bubbles. 

Tyndall  ("Heat  considered  as  a  Mode  of  Motion")  says:  "Clouds 
float  in  the  air,  and  hence  the  surmise  that  they  are  composed  of 
vesicles  or  bladders  of  water,  thus  forming  shells  instead  of  spheres. 
Eminent  travellers  say  they  have  seen  these  bubbles,  and  their  state- 
ments are  entitled  to  all  respect" 

If  I  remember  rightly  it  was  De  Saussure  or  De  Luc  who  described 
such  vesicles,  seen  on  a  mountain  top,  having  dimensions  comparable 
to  mustard  seeds.  Both  of  these  observers  were  satisfied  of  their 
existence,  and  to  De  Saussure  we  are  indebted  for  the  above-quoted 
name. 

In   "  Nature "  of  March  12  is  an  illustrated  description  of  the 


5'^> 


The   GentUtnan  s  Magazine. 


"  Cliiuil-jiUiw  ai>i>ir,uus"  of  Prof.  J.  KieiMin^.  Am  .r.j:  cih; 
(iliuincil  I)/  Ills  mclhuj  of  obser^  iny  s^i-.ipindcd  atmoiplserii 
»as  .1  tU- monstr.it kin  that  the  particles  of  i^o-cal'.cJ  vtaiciht 
.in-  ii'ii  altiTctJ  in  ilinicnsions  by  rart:  fact  ion  ■•f  tlic  mtiliutn  : 
lliey  ari:  siisin-ndeJ,  whitii  would  be  the  tiic  nen;  they  ^ 
lie  lists  this  by  observing  the  diffraclion  ph  en  omen  a  that  di 
iho  si/v  itf  iiarlii  k-s.     These  were  not  changed  with  tlie  rare 

A  more  liirert  demonstration  was  made  bj-  M.  J,  PUte; 
fourteen  years  ago.  I)y  means  of  a  tube  drawn  to  a  very  fi 
he  obtained  actual  vesicles  or  hollow  water  bubbles,  of  le; 
milUnu-tre  in  di.imeter,  and  lie  passed  these  to  the  free  undc 
til"  water  in  a  tube. 

In  every  experiment  the  waler  skin  of  the  bubbles  united 
water  in  the  tube,  and  the  enclosed  air  rose  to  the  5urf.ice. 
large  iiuinlver  of  such  bubbles  w.is  thus  introduced  they  (i 
iloiidiness  in  the  water  as  they  gradually  rose  to  the  surface. 

On  submitting  the  so-called  vesicular  vajwur  to  the  sa 
M.  riateau  found  that  it  was  all  condensed,  and  added  to  thi 
w.iter  in  the  tube  without  producing  any  such  cloud  of  airpai 
should  h.ive  been  there  had  the  cloud-tnatler  been  consti 
I'e  Saii»iiri.'  st.ited. 

Ihere  Ml!!,  lionever,  remains  the  possibility  that  undi 
cin-t:mstar.u'>  i,s.iy  at  great  elevations,  with  cold  and  rarefi 
rouu.lin^s-  .i  jurti'le  of  condensed  water,  subjected  to  fn 
T.\di.itions,  ui;;;;-.!.  by  internal  absorption  of  heat  and  external 
by  contict  ar.ti  l'\ .iporation. become  filled  with  n(|ucous  vajwiir 
fr>ini  itself,  and  thus  ex[>.inded  into  .1  bubble. 

rroiessor  Kiessling's  experiment  omits  the  action  of  ci 
radiation,  which  is  the  probable  cause  of  the  \esicular  striic 
suth  exists.  With  the  .ippar.itus  at  his  command  in  the 
Institution,  Dr.  lyudail  iniyht  put  this  question  to  the  test. 


517 


TABLE   TALK. 

Survival  of  Paganism  in  Christian  Countries. 

THE  extent  to  which  Christian  ceremonial  and  popular  custom 
are  influenced  by  Pagan  practice  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
subjects  with  which  the  historian  or  the  student  of  folk-lore  is 
concerned.  That  the  Church  adopted  so  many  of  the  pagan  insti- 
tutions as  had  struck  deep  into  the  people  and  were  capable  of 
receiving  an  ecclesiastical  veneer,  and  that  the  public  with  the  con- 
nivance rather  than  the  consent  of  the  Church  preserved  other  prac- 
tices of  their  primitive  faith,  are  matters  now  conceded.  Among 
other  things,  however,  that  have  disappeared  in  consequence  of  the 
friction  brought  with  increased  facilities  of  travel  are  old  customs, 
and  a  man  must  now  go  far  afield  to  find  any  but  the  most  modified 
traces  of  pagan  worship.  It  is  interesting,  accordingly,  to  find  in 
"The  Cyclades  "  of  Mr.  J.  Theodore  Bent,*  whose  name  is  not  un- 
familiar in  these  pages,  an  account  of  the  superstitious  practices  that 
still  linger  in  the  islands  of  the  -^gean.  Here  the  graceful  faith  in 
the  Nereid  still  survives,  and  when  a  man  catches  cold  sleeping  under 
a  tree,  he  spreads  beneath  it,  to  conciliate  the  Nymph,  a  clean  white 
cloth,  with  new-made  bread,  honey,  wine,  &c,  not  forgetting  a  pot  of 
incense.  Elias  the  prophet  has,  Mr.  Bent  shows,  some  of  the  attri- 
butes of  "HXtof,  the  sun  deity.  St.  Anarguris  receives  worship  of  a 
kind  previously  accorded  to  Pan ;  St  Dionysius  is  tiie  successor  of 
Dionysos  or  Bacchus;  and  St.  Nicholas  the  lineal  descendant  of 
Poseidon  or  Neptune. 

Death  of  King  Harold. 

FEW  things  are  more  remarkable  than  the  reluctance  of  a  section 
of  the  public  to  believe  in  the  death  of  characters  of  ex- 
ceptional eminence.  Through  centuries  the  idea  prevailed  that  King 
Arthur,  assuming  him  for  the  nonce  to  have  been  a  real  character, 
would  return  and  redress  the  wrongs  which  his  Round  Table  had  left 

'  Longmans  &  Co. 


Tlie  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

unrighled.  Similar  (li;Iusions  have  prevailed  with  regard  to  numerous 
other  characters.  Even  in  the  present  sceplical  age  beiiefs  of  the 
kind  are  cherished,  and  years  hence,  it  may  safely  be  prophesied, 
reports  that  General  Gordon  is  alive  and  held  in  durance  will  be 
circulated.  Among  those  concerning  whom  humours  of  the  kind 
have  prevailed  is  Harold,  who  is  said  to  have  survived  the  battle  of 
Hastings,  and  died  years  subsequently  as  a  hermit  in  the  full  odoui 
of  sanctity.  The  "  Vita  Haroldi " — from  which,  as  well  as  from  the 
writings  of  Brompton,  Knyghton,  and  ^Ired  of  Rievaulx,  and 
Geraldus  Cambrensis,  the  report  obtains  a  semblance  of  historic^] 
accuracy — has  been  for  the  first  time  fully  and  satisfactorily  printed 
by  Mr.  ^Va^ter  de  Gray  Birch,  of  the  British  Museum.  The  original 
and  unique  MS.  is.  it  may  be  said,  in  the  Museum,  No  more 
inclined  than  Sir  Thomas  Hardy,  the  late  Deputy-Keeper  of  the 
Records,  is  Mr.  Birch  to  attach  historical  importance  to  this  curious 
production,  which,  indeed,  he  calls  the  "  Romance  of  the  Life  of 
Harold,  King  of  England."  It  is  none  the  less,  with  the  exception 
of  the  method  of  the  King's  escape,  a  very  plausible  document. 
According  to  the  unknown  scribe,  who  is  supposed  to  have  written 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  the  Battle  of  Hastings,  Harold, 
when  the  fight  was  over,  was  found  by  a  Saracen  (!)  woman,  who 
carried  him  to  Winchesterand  healed  him  of  his  wounds.  Perceiving 
that  God  opposed  the  prosecution  of.  worldly  designs,  Harold,  after 
a  pilgrimage  to  various  shrines,  assumed  the  name  of  Christian,  hid 
his  face  with  a  cloth,  and,  after  living  in  different  places  on  the 
borders  of  \Vales,  died  as  a  hermit  in  Chester.  The  body  interred 
at  Walthara  «'as,  it  is  said,  that  of  a  stranger  mistaken  for  Harold 
by  the  messenger,  a  woman  despatched  by  the  clerks  at  Waltham. 
Leaving  as  a  matter  never  definitely  to  be  settled  this  curious 
controversy,  I  will  add  that  this  "Vila  Haroldi,"  the  effect  of  which  is 
to  rob  Wahham  Abbey  of  the  claim  to  be  the  burial-place  of  Harold. 
was  assumably  composed  and  certainly  transcribed  in  the  Abbey 
itself,  and  remained  for  a  couple  of  centuries  in  the  scriptorium  or 
library  of  that  institution.  What  motive  for  the  invention  of  such  a 
legend  can  have  existed  is  not  easy  to  tell. 

ScNDAV  Lectures  for  the  Operative  Classes. 

AN  experiment  in  connection  with  Sunday  lecturing,  which  has 
for  two  years  been  conducted  in  Newcastle,  has  some  feattires 
which  distinguish  it  from  other  attempts  to  deal  with  the  phenomenal 
gloom  of  an  English  Sunday.   In  the  first  place,  it  is  purely  voluntaiy, 


Table   Tail: 


519 


in  the  sense  that  no  person  has  a  financial  interest  in  its  success. 
Its  meetings  are, again,  held  in  a  theatre— the  Tyne  theatre — a  build- 
ing capable  of  holding  3,000  individuals.  It  aims,  lastly,  at  enforcing 
no  special  class  of  view,  but  deals  with  ail  questions  concerning 
social  well-being,  and  with  all  modern  intellectual  life  and 
progress.  Dr.  Wm.  Carpenter  is  the  president,  the  list  of  vice- 
presidents  including  such  well-known  names  as  Professors  Tyndalt, 
Bain,  Huxley,  and  Max  Miiller,  Sir  Frederick  Lcighton,  P.R.A., 
and  Mr,  John  Morley.  The  lectures  given  during  the  past  year  have 
been  by  Mr.  Frederick  Harrison,  Dr.  Andrew  Wilson,  Mrs.  Fenwick 
Miller,  and  other  well-known  writers.  N'oi  easy  is  it  to  over-value 
the  advantages  of  institutions  of  this  class.  With  the  hard-headed 
Northern  operatives  an  experiment  such  as  this  is  certain  to  prove 
succe^fiil.  Is  it  not  possible  to  do  something  of  the  kind  in  die 
South?  I  do  not  mean  in  London,  where,  of  course,  institutions  not 
wholly  dissimilar  may  be  found,  but  in  some  of  our  large  country 
towns,  the  population  of  which  stands  greatly  in  need  of  enlighten- 
menL 


Thk  Book-Hunter. 

I  WELCOME  with  pleasure  an  accessible  and,  in  a  sense,  a  popular 
edition  of  the  Book-Hunter  of  Burton. '  During  almost  a  quarter 
of  a  century  this  has  been  one  of  the  scarcest  of  modern  books.  Many 
years  ago  the  first  edition  had  disappeared  entirely  from  circulation. 
So  scarce  did  it  become,  that  when  a  new  so-called  edition  de  lux/: 
was  printed,  it  was  sold  off  at  once  to  discontented  applicants  for 
the  earlier  work.  W'ith  the  publication  of  the  reprint  now  put  for- 
ward, the  Book-Hunter  comes  into  general  circulation.  It  is  the 
pleasantest  piece  of  gossip  about  books  and  book-buyers  that  has 
yet  been  uTitten  in  England.  Unlike  the  classic  "BibUomania" 
of  Dibdin,  it  is  not  essentially  a  book  for  collectors.  It  does  not 
describe  rarities,  and  it  deals  comparatively  little  with  prices.  About 
collectors  and  collections  it  prattles,  however,  in  "most  engaging 
fashion,"  and  it  deserves  to  be  read  by  every  book-lover.  One  thing 
that  will  specially  amuse  the  reader  who  takes  it  up  for  the  first  time 
tt  the  number  of  familiar  stories  and  witticisms  it  contains  coo- 
CcnUBS  the  origin  of  which  he  has  probably  been  curious.  He  may 
indeed  feel  Jike  the  lady  who,  hearing  "  Hamlet"  acted  for  the  first  lime, 
fompl^ned  ^'i^  it  was  full  of  quotations.  The  humour  of  the 
^ecdotes  is  ?0[t  ^,ldom  of  the  sly  kind  that  to  certain  classes  ot 

■  W.  libckwood  i.  Sons. 


S*o 


7ik  Gtmllamatds  MagastHS. 


Thus  there  is  a  capital  story  of  ao 
■  ig  off  some  raliiable  fragments 
gf  &rtr  E^tfc  poCPT-     Astonisbcil  at  fiist  at  the  prices  fetched, 
0  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  became 
t  if  « high  pfice  was  not  realised.    At 
d  the  public  rebukefuUy  :  "  Going 
11,°  be  said,  "  this  curious  book- 


I 


IsDtAX  'ntaflrs  I 


ENCLAXa 


I   AX  ^mI  to  see  Ail  a  pt>a  ideotica]  with  one  I  was  amoni  tt>e 
itA  lo  iiifiiiii  mT  is  now  finding  general  advocacy.    Thai  is, 
to  not  year's  Indian  and  Colonial  Exhibition  of  a 
of  pid^d  men  fnxn  our  various  Indian  regiraeiits- 
Tht  cfcct  these  nen  hare  npoo   their  fellows  when,  under  the 
■ttoeace  of  Mew  and  snrpnsing  experiences— and  with  il  may  ^ 
a  taadhcfTCHUDce  always  accoirded  to  the  traveller,  and  anyth^^^S 
laAer  thM  re{ntgn  to  d»e  Indian  mind— they  spread  the  report  f^ 
Ea^Jtod^  sticBgib  aad  Bk^nibcencc — is  potent  in  strengthening    ^ 
the  Inuer  the  convktion  that  w«  are  a  dominant  race.     In  viei^ 
possible  cotBplicatwas  on  our  borders,  such  a  scheme  is  likely      ^ 
be  of  highest  adnoti^     Il  will,  indeed,  impress  the  Indian  m**' 
noieAaBasaccessfblcampugs  in  Afghanistan.  The  only  objec>S  "^ 
to  the  proposal,  the  practical  wisdom  and  the  importance  of  wh»  ^~ 
none  can  dOBbi, comes  from  Anglo-Indian  officials,  who  fear  that  C  '^  j 
tioops  iq  Engtaad,  under  the  influence  of  the  interest  they  arc  lik^^  ' 
toiBSptK  in  Aeitir  sex.  would  lose  a  little  of  their  respect  for  Ei^^ 
liih  waatSL,      Such  an  apprehension   should   not   be   allowed 
interfere  in  the  slightest  Ae^xe  with  an  arrangement  the  importan.  "^ 
of  wlucfa  I  hold  it  diRicuk  to  o>-er<estimate. 

S-iXVAKirS  URBAX. 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE. 

June  1885. 

THE   UNFORESEEN, 

By  Alice  0*HANLO^J. 
Chapter  XXI. 

AN   UNWELCOME   SUITOR. 

ALL  day  it  had  been  oppressively  hot — ^heavy,  dreamy,  August 
weather.  In  the  early  evening,  however,  a  light  breeze  had 
sprung  up,  and  Olivia  Ashmead  had  stepped  out  to  enjoy  its  refresh- 
ment in  the  small  garden  attached  to  Squire  Awdry's  London  house. 
A  tall  holly  hedge,  behind  the  bronze  railings,  screened  the  garden 
ftom  the  curious  gaze  of  loiterers  along  the  road  that  ran  outside. 
Seats  were  disposed  about  in  various  directions,  but  there  was  one 
which  stood  in  a  specially  secluded  nook — a  garden-bench  with  an 
awning  over  it.  To  this  Miss  Ashmead  at  once  made  her  way,  and 
when  she  reached  it,  dropped  thereupon,  glad  of  the  support  for  her 
trembling  limbs. 

For  Olivia  was  trembling.  Not,  however,  from  physical  weakness, 
albeit  that  she  looked  pale  and  worn  and  jaded.  And  that  she 
should  have  looked  so  was  not  much  to  be  wondered  at !  What  she 
had  gone  through,  of  late,  had  been  almost  sufficient  to  have  broken 
down  a  constitution  less  excellent  than  her  own.  "  In  all  ray  life,  I 
do  declare,  I  never  seen  anyone,  my  lady  (beg  pardon,  miss,  but  use 
is  second  nature) — no,  I  never  seen  tio  one  devote  herself  so  to 
another — was  it  father,  or  mother,  or  sister,  or  husband — like  as  you 
have  done  to  this  sweet  young  lady,  who,  as  they  tell  me  below  stairs, 
isn't  the  least  bit  of  relation  to  you  ! "  was  the  testimony  Nurse 
Alien  had  borne  to  the  efforts  of  her  coadjutor.  "And,  what's 
more,  I  never  seen  no  one  so  handy  over  nursin*  as  hadn't  been 
trained  to  it  If  the  young  lady's  honourable  husband  ain't  grateful , 
why  he  don't  deserve  as  she  should  have  pulled  through  like  this*- 

voL.  ccLviii.    NO.  1854.  00 


::;2  Th£  GtMthwmn's  Afagazine. 

yjMO^  1  didnt  o^^  to  s?  sacJi  a  ifaing,  peibaps,  and  her  sit 
pool  d^u;  as  pjr^ILl  as  a  ncv-bcan  lan^." 

Btf  tbe  *' boaoonUe  faadnuid  "  had  pro>-«d  grateful — graieru/ 
ra^F"^  to  hi*c  artwfifd  Mis.  ADen's  disinterested  enthusia^ia. 
Oidr  >  f**  inameBts  ^d,  Dot^Jis  h^  been  pouring  forth  hii 
patknde  in  bcr  car,  and  k  aas  Iiis  maiuier  of  doing  so  that  hid 
Bpset  poor  01iTU*s  eqauunuty,  and  seot  her  out  into  the  guden 
witb  Artiag  knees  and  an  orer4xndened  heart  He  had  caught  her 
as  she  came  Confa  from  ber  own  room,  dressed  already  far  ihe  eveo- 
ing — dioa^  it  stOl  wanted  more  than  an  hour  from  dianer  time— 
and  be  bad  dixwii  ber  into  a  small  sitting-room,  »  boudoir,  whicii 
i  put  of  bb  wife's  state  Oi  apartments,  lliere,  with  tears  in 
I  c^eS)  and  an  effusion  almost  abject,  Douglas  had  loaded  bet 
EdictioDs.  He  had  held  her  hands  in  both  hi: 
d  kissed  them  again  ai>d  again  ;  he  had  looked  at  ho 
r  and  tenderly  than  he  had  ever  done  before,  even 
I  stood  to  her  in  the  position  of  an  affianced  lover. 
love,  tbe  tend^ness,  the  agitation  had  not,  Olivii 
D  icaQy  for  bei  1  Excepting  as  an  instrument  in  rest{»ing 
to  him  his  adored  wife,  what,  she  now  asked  herself,  with  a  pug 
t£  imwonted  bitterness  and  injustice,  was  she  to  the  young 
man?  I 

Nothing  \  though  she  had  loii-ed  him  so  ardently,  so  long,  so  l^lli"" 
fully.  Nothing  !  though  she  would  have  sacrificed  all  she  possessed 
to  save  him  from  sorrow  or  pain  j  though  she  would  well  nigh  have 
given  her  life  to  ser\-e  him. 

His  love,  his  impassioned  devotion  was  all  for  her — his  wife  — 
Was  she  his  wife  ?  .  .  .  Who — what  was  she  ?  No  innocent  girl^ 
at  all  events,  as  Douglas  thought,  but  a  woman  with  a  history.  ^^- 
woman  with  a  dark,  unwholesome  secret  in  her  life.  A  woman  x^ 
unworthy  of  his  love,  as  she  (Olivia)  felt,  in  her  heart,  iliat  she  wa^ 
the  reverse, 

A  few  scalding  drops  welled  up  to  her  eyes,  and  overflowed  upo*^" 
her  cheeks.     But  Olivia  presendy  wiped  ihem  away.     She  was  n»* 
the  sort   of  person  whose  emotions  find  an  easy  vent   in  teiis- 
Nevertheless,  those  she  had  shed  had  brought  her  relief.     Breathing 
more  freely,  she  looked  around  on  the  pretty  garden,  with  its  choice      , 
shrubs  and  blooming  summer   flowers.     A   fountain,  playing  at  » 
little  distance,  sent  forth  a  pleasant,  refreshing  sound;  the  gentle 
breeze,  which  just  stirred  the  fringe  of  the  awning  over  her  head,  rt^ 
laden  with  the  perfume  of  roses.     Butterflies  flitted  by  on  idlcwing^ 
and  the  shadow  of  a  large  deadora  lay  softly  on  the  grass  at  her  ft* 


The  Unforeseen.  523 

Despite  the  dull  roar  of  the  Great  City,  as  it  fell  upon  her  ear  with  a 
sabdued,  not  altogether  unmusical  reverberation,  like  the  roll  of  a 
big  drum,  the  spot  seemed  secluded  and  peaceful.  A  sense  of  calm- 
ness and  serenity  began  to  steal  over  her.  As  the  beauty  and 
fiagrance  penetrated  to  her  senses,  Olivia's  mind  recovered  a  higher 
tone.  In  this  sweet  balmy  air  there  was  purity  and  strength.  She 
had  left  behind  her,  in  the  sick  chamber,  a  stifling  moral  atmo- 
sphere, injurious  to  breathe,  productive  of  evil  thoughts,  of  dark 
SDsptcions,  of  impatient  misery.  Here,  perhaps,  she  might  see 
Aings  more  clearly — might  get  some  light  as  to  what  course  it  would 
be  her  duty  to  take  in  order  to  dispel,  or  to  confirm,  those  wretched 
suspicions,  those  harrowing  doubts.  To  harbour  them,  without 
seeking  to  dispel  or  confirm  them,  would,  Olivia  felt,  be  impossible, 
and,  as  concerned  Douglas's  interests,  wrong.  .  .  .  "Was  this 
Douglas?"    A  man's  step  was  crushing  the  gravel  of  a  path  that 

approached  her  seat  Olivia  stooped  her  head  to  look  from  under 
the  awning.     No,  it  was  not  Douglas,  but  Mr.  Estcourt.    Olivia's 

firat  impulse  at  sight  of  this  gentleman  was  to  flee  j  but  to  carry  out 

that  impulse  was  impossible,  for  in  another  moment  Mr.  Estcourt 

had  placed  himself  in  front  of  her. 

"  Don't  rise,  Miss  Ashniead  I  Pray,  don't  go  away !  "  he  begged. 

"  I  have  been  watching  for  an  opportunity  of  speaking  with  you  alone 

for  a  long  time  (Olivia  was  quite  aware  of  this  fact),  but  you  always 

nin  off  in  such  a  hurry.     Please  give  me  a  few  moments  now  !   May  I 

fit  by  you  ?  " 

Olivia  made  way  in  silence,  and  allowed  him  to  take  a  seat  on  the 

bench.     Whatever  he  wished  to  say,  she  had  hastily  reflected,  it 

would  better  to  let  him  say  it  at  once. 

"  Let  me  thank  ypu  first,"  he  began,  speaking  with  nervous 

rapidity.    "  Let  me  thank  you  once  more  for  your  extraordinary 

kindness,  your  wonderful  goodness  to   my  Claudia.       You  have 

earned,    my    dear    Miss    Ashmead,   her   life-long  gratitude,    and 

my — my " 

•*  Oh  !  as  for  that,"  interposed  Olivia,  with  somewhat  brusque 

impatience,  "  what  I  have  done  was  not  done  entirely  for  Ciaudia*s 

sake." 

"  Ah  I  do  you  mean Is  it  possible  that  I that  I  may 

hope  that " 

"What    I    mean,"   again  interrupted    his  companion,  flushing 

crimson  with  annoyance,   "is    that    my  interest    in    my    Cousin 

Douglas's  wife  has  been  principally  for  his  sake." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course — of  course  you  didn't  mean^— "     Mr. 

ooa 


524  "^^^  Gentleman's  Ma^sint. 

Estcoun  summered  and  he^tated  pitifully:  "Bui  1  ho 
Ashmead,  that,  at  least,  you  don't  dislike  me?" 

*'  If  I  did  it  would  be  rather  difficult  to  tell  you  SO  to  your  6ice, 
would  it  not,  Mr.  Estcourt?"  1 

"  But  )-ou  smile  now.  That's  encouraging  '.  Miss  Ashmead,  do 
seem  very  old  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  know  your  age,  Mr.  Estcourt,"  she  answered  stifflj^ 
banishing  the  encouraging  smile  on  the  instanL 

"  I  don't  look  so  old  as  I  am  though,  do  I  ?  And  if  I  could  onljr 
get  my  mind  set  at  rest,  1  should  look  ever  so  much  younger."  He 
put  his  hand  up  to  his  head  as  he  spoke.  "  Miss  Ashmead "— mth 
a  sudden  spurt  of  courage — "  I  want  you  to  many  me." 
"  Do  you  indeed  ?  How  extremely  flattering  ! " 
"  I  should  be  so  very,  very  much  obliged  to  you,  if  you  would," 
he  went  on,  apparently  unconscious  of  her  sarcasm ;  "  I  admire  yoa 
immensely,  you  know." 

"  I  know  that  you  have  been  at  the  pains  to  try  to  make  me  itnnli 
so.  But  admiration,  Mr.  Estcourt,  is  scarcely  all  that  is  needed  u> 
preparation  for  marriage." 

"  But  there  is  more  than  that  My  feelings,  I  assure  you,  m;  deal 
young  friend,  are  all  that  .  .  .  that  ihey  ought  to  be." 

"  Well,  we  may  waive  the  question — it  is  of  no  consequence.  I 
cannot  marry  you,  Mr.  Estcourt." 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  Oh  !  do  you  really  mean  it  ?  "  There  ms  * 
look  of  such  blank  dismay  on  his  countenance,  that  Olivia  ^ 
puzzled. 

"  I  can't  understand  you,  Mr.  Estcourt,"  she  said  ;  "  I  knoic  Jon 
do  not  love  me,  so  that,  even  if  our  ages  were  suitable,  and  it"" 
were  no  other  objections,  it  would  be  impossible  to  think  of  it  BA 
as  it  is,  I  cannot  make  out  ivliy  you  should  wish  to  marry  me?' 

"It  is  because  there  is  no  other  way  out  of  the  wood!"  ^ 
answered,  wildly.  "  No  other  refuge,  no  other  hope  !  Oh,  do  B^ 
pity  on  me?  If  you  only  knew,  I  think  you  would,  you  aresokiw^ 
...  I  haven't  gone  about  things  properly,  I  am  afraid ;  but  I  asn"* 
you,  I  should  be  tremendously  proud  of  you,  if  you  were  my  wi(t^ 
and  the  settlements — the  settlements  would  be  all  right — I'm  a  lif* 
man,  you  know?" 

"  Mr.  Estcourt,"  demanded  Olivia,  in  an  entirely  changed  lOiW 
"  are  you  quite  well  ?  It  has  sometimes  struck  me  "—she  laid  1"^ 
hand  kindly  on  his  arm— "that  you — "  she  besilated  a  moment  in 
her  turn—"  Claudia  says  that  you  used  not  to  be  so  nervous,  '^ 
you  are  much  altered  ?  " 


The  Unforeseen. 


"Ah!  she  lias  noticed  it,  has  she?  and  you,  too?    Yes,  I  am  \ 
iltered.     I  sometimes  think— don'l  tell  anyone,  I  implore   you — I 
mmetimes  think — no,  I  won't  say  it     You  can  save  me  if  you  like. 
You  mitst  save  me !  I  shall  keep  on  asking  you,  and  asking  you  till 
you  do." 

Olivia  rose.  "I  am  going  in  at  once,  Mr.  Estcourt ;  and  I  may 
as  well  lei!  you  that  I  mean  to  return  home  to-morrow.  Claudia  is 
now  quite  out  of  danger,  and  her  perfect  recovery  is  only  a  question 
of  lime.  I  slull  mention  to  Captain  Awdry  the  fear  tliat  has  struck 
nie  in  regard  to  your  health,  and  I  shall  also  ask  him,  before  I  leave, 
to  guard  me  from  the  molestation  you  threaten  me  with — that  is,  I 
unless  you  will  retract  the  threat  yourself,  and  promise  never  again  to  I 
illude  to  this  subject?  " 

"  I  will,  I  will  upon  ray  honour  as  a  gentleman  !  "  he  eagerly 
Mclatmed.  "  Don't  say  anything  to  Awdry,  don't,  I  beseech  you  ?  I 
didn't  mean  hint  to  know  until  everything  was  settled,  because  I  felt 
sure  he  would  oppose  it,  though  it  was  ray  only  hope,  my  only  hope  !  " 
His  head  dropped  dejectedly  upon  his  bosom,  and  in  this  attitude 
Miss  Ashnnead  left  him. 

The  next  morning  Olivia  made  an  opportunity  for  confiding  to 
Douglas  Awdry  the  rather  peculiar  assumption  that  she  had  based  on 
Mr.  Eslcourt's  odd  manner  and  behaviour — which  assumption  the 
Foung  man  received  with  very  natural  reluctance  and  doubt,  although 
t  afterwards  proved  to  be  correct.  In  the  afternoon  she  left  London 
Or  Clavermere,  carrying  with  her,  in  her  trunk,  a  magnificent 
bracelet,  set  with  emeralds  and  diamonds,  of  which  Douglas  had 
J^ed  her  acceptance,  as  a  faint  token  of  his  gratitude  for  her  more 
*ian  sisterly  devotion  to  his  wife  throughout  her  trying  illness.  And, 
n  her  heart,  as  a  result  of  that  devotion,  Olivia  carried  a  secret,  the 
'U'den  of  which  was,  she  felt,  too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

Three  days  after  her  return  home.  Miss  Ashmead  posted  a  letter 
o  her  brother-in-law,  Robert  Hilton,  in  Canada.  The  letter,  very 
atefully  and  cautiously  worded,  contained  a  commission  which  she 
*gged  Robert  to  execute  for  her  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Montreal, 
'hich  city,  she  was  aware,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  once 
^ety  month  for  business  purposes.  The  result  of  that  commission 
'as  lo  be  communicated  in  a  private  letter  to  herself,  and  no 
"usion  to  it,  Olivia  had  entreated,  was  to  be  breathed  to  her  sister 
^ith. 


k. 


I 


WES' ha"  Rtam  booK,  kn^ 
Kfhjl^  Mfc  >p  hrfy.    ae  was  occiqiTVK  b^ 
A  faiigbt  fire 


nagca  her  fair  Ek<,  and  bunudnog  M 

She  kad  flnknd  (be  Moe  to  Imc  MsstcT  Eustace  m  ber  duogj 
^mB  Ae  Big  far  her  ictain,  and  Ae  was  eBJornga  ddigfaifid 
wilb  bo  Ihriag  piqrtbiag — ibeSttk  tfcasare  far  wbooi  her  BulanJl 
findnoi  bad  been  inaeased  b^  separadoiL  Redmtpg  on  a  velvd 
cushion,  and  crowti^  with  satts&cdon  as  he  puDed  the  down^ 
fealben  out  of  his  mother's  &n,  the  Grand  Turk  was,  at  present,  a^i 
"  good  as  gold,"  and  Claudia  hoped  that  he  might  remain  so  a  liltl  ^ 
longer,  for  she  wanted  to  keep  him  with  her  until  his  father  came  i  4 
to  KC  how  bonny  he  looked  in  thai  negligent  attitude,  with  his  de^ 
little  bare  legs  sprawling  in  the  firelight. 

Yesterday  Douglas  had  "  run  up  "  to  London  to  see  Mr.  Estcourt — | 
to  he  had  explained  to  his  wife — Uiough  he  had  fnbcniie  (oadd  th^ 


Men  sutDmoned  there  by  a  very  urgent  letter.  Claudia, 
however,  was  expecting  him  back  this  afternoon,  and  whilst  she  still 
knell  on  the  heartlirug  playing  with  her  child,  she  heard  the  wheels 
of  the  carriage  returning  from  the  station,  whidier  it  had  been  sent  to 
meet  him.  She  did  not  rise  nor  move,  excepting  to  turn  a  smiling 
face  towards  the  door.  Thus,  when  Douglas  entered,  his  vision  was 
greeted  by  a  pretty,  sweet,  domestic  picture,  destined  to  remain  for 
ever  stereotyped  upon  his  recollection,  and  to  cause  him,  in  view  of 
events  now  close  at  hand,  hours  of  acutest  anguish.  But,  in  happy 
'porance  of  any  impending  crisis  in  his  life— suspecting  nothing  of 
e  blow  which  shil^y  Fortune^"  that  goddess  blind,  that  stands  upon 
E  rolling  restless  stone  "^was  already  lifting  her  hand  to  deal  him 
t-the  young  man  approached  bis  ivife. 

"  My  darling  1 "  he  murmured,  in  a  tone  of  infinite  tenderness, 
toping  to  embrace  her,  and  then  turning  to  kiss  the  baby,  who, 
Iqecting  to  his  papa's  moustache,  mentioned  the  fact  in  his  ovm 
lay,  but  was  pacified  on  being  allowed  to  return  to  ihe  alternate 
ibrication  and  destruction  of  his  fan, 

"  You  are  tired,  Douglas  ? "  said  his  wife,  as  he  sank  on  a  chair 

e  at  hand,  with  a  very  audible  sigh,  "  I'll  ring  for  a  cup  of  tea. 
It  will  refresh  you  before  you  go  to  dress." 

"  No,  no  ;  don't  ring.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you — some 
rather  bad  news  to  give  you,  dear  Claudia." 

"What  about?"  She  was  kneeling  by  his  side,  and  Douglas  had 
taken  her  hand  in  his.     "  Is  it  my  father  ?     Is  he  ill,  Douglas  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  at  all  well,  dearest.  But  his  illness  is  not  of  a  very 
common  nature,"  returned  her  husband.  "It  is  to  be  feared — 
indeed,  two  eminent  physicians  have  pronounced  it  to  be  the  case 
-that  he  is  suffering  from  softening  of  the  brain." 

"Oh,  Douglas,  how  horrible  !     But  he  will  get  better?" 

"  My  poor  child,  I  don't  like  to  tell  you,  but  I  am  afraid — (you 
must  try  to  bear  it  as  well  as  you  can,  darling)^!  am  afraid  there  ia 
very  little  hope  of  that.  One  thing  that  makes  his  case  the  more 
serious  is  that  the  disease  has  been  coming  on  very  slowly  and 
gradually.  He  is  here,  Claudia — I  have  brought  him  down  wiUi  me ; 
but " 

"  Oh,  Douglas,  where  is  he  ?     Poor  Papa  1    Let  me  go  to  him  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  love.  I  have  something  more  to  say  first,"  he  rejoined, 
tightening  his  clasp  of  her  hand.  "  1  must  tell  you,  because  it  is  neces- 
sary that  you  should  know  it,  what  has  brought  on  this  affliction," 

"  Yes,  tell  me  ? "  she  pressed,  exhibiting  much  less  agitation 
BAan  her  husband  had  anticipated. 


\ 


\ 


lyS  Ti£  GmtioMon's  Magazine. 

"The  one  oC  tfw  nbdnef  is  this,  Claudia.     Your  father  ba 

'FaSedmbK^os?    Impotable!    ^Vfay,  Douglas,  he  is  exceed 

It  bees  ridt  lor  a  fftai  many  years,  deat.  At  the  tim 
be  W3S  a  poor  raan,  and  he  kocw  it  I  He  deceivet 
.  .  If  be  wen  not  your  father,  and  if  I  did  not 
tbu,  Rco  then,  be  might  not  have  been  altogether 
Us  bdianoiir,  I  should  say  some  very  hard  things. 
nK  j£xojooo  as  ]raar  duirer,  knowing,  all  the 

bndljr  as  Doany   hundreds  !     But,  you   know 
I  did  not  nany  joa  for  money — so  that  pan  of  the 
t  gmdy  signify." 
I  doBt  uudoilitnd?"  £alteTed  Claudia,  when  he  paused. 
be  bate  been  poor.  Douglas,  with  his  great  wa^ehol■s^ 
-pad  and  that  place  in  London  ?  " 
My  dear'tt  has  all  been  carried  on  under  false  conditions  for  a 
lone  tiiAe.    I  cannot  explain  evcf3nhing  to  you  just  now.    Vour 
bthct  lost  money  hcarily  through  speculations— veiy  wild  ones,  it . 
seems  to  me.    He  has  been  expecting  the  smash  to  come  for  ever  so 
long ;  but  it  was  only  last  week  thai  he  was  declared  bankrupt" 

"  Oh,  Douglas,  are  you  %tTy  angij-  ?  I  am  so  sorry  !  "  Claudia 
iried  to  draw  away  bci  hand ;  but  her  husband  held  it  fast 

"  I  am  not  angry  with  jwi,  my  di^r  wife,"  he  replied,  kissing  her, 
"  but  I  am  certainly  disappointed  in  Mr.  Esicourt.  He  is  not  the 
man  I  took  him  to  be.  .  .  .  But  we  won't  talk  about  thaL 
There  is  just  another  thing  1  want  to  say.  1  have  not  only  received 
nothing  from  him  of  the  sum  he  agreed  to  hand  over  on  your  behalf, 
but  I  have  actually  lent  your  father  at  various  times  since  our  marriage, 
money  to  the  amount  of  ^6,000,  which  he  borrowed  from  me  under 
the  plea  of  temporary  embarrassment— withholding  in  what,  bui  for 
his  unfortunate  condition  of  mind,  I  should  describe  as  a  flagrantly 
dishonest  way.  any  true  explanation  of  his  position." 

"  Oh  Douglas  ! "  ejaculated  his  wife,  bursting  into  tears  dI 
surprise  and  vexation  :  "  I  feel  so  grieved— so  ashamed  !" 

"  My  darling.  I  knew  you  would  be  distressed.  Your  own  nature 
is  so  honourable,  and  I  would  have  spared  you  this  pain  if  I  could, 
But  I  am  compelled  to  tell  you  everything,  because,  dear,  I  want  tc 
clear  off  your  father's  liabilities.  They  are  not  very  heavy,  but  thej 
will  take  all  the  ready  money  1  can  at  all  spare,  and  I  must  ask  you, 
love,  to  let  me  have,  for  the  rime  being,  at  any  rate,  that  five  thousand 
pounds  which  you  have  in  the  Canadian  Bank,' 


The   Unforeseen, 

There  was  no  reply.  These  simple  words  had  come  upon 
Claudia  like  a  startling  thunder- clap  on  a  smiling  smnmer's-day — or 
the  sudden  bursting  of  a  bomb-shell  at  her  feet.  Her  heart  throbbed 
violenlly,  there  was  a  sense  of  suffocation  in  her  throat,  and  the 
room  seemed  to  be  turning  round  with  her.  Although  he  was  so 
near,  Douglas's  voice,  when  he  spoke  again,  appeared  to  come  from 
a  long  distance. 

*'  You  don't  object  to  lend  me  the  money,  do  you,  Claudia?  " 

*'  What  money  ? "  she  managed  at  length  to  gasp.    "  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean.    Let  nie  get  up,  Douglas,  the  fire  is  too  hot!" 
She  rose  and  sealed  herself  on  a  low  chair— drawing  it  first  into  the   | 
shadow— closeby  the  mantelpiece.  , 

The  baby  still  lay  crowing  and  kicking  contentedly  on  his  pillow, 
in  the  warmth  of  the  leaping  blazes,  innocently  unconscious  of  any    • 
change  about  him — any  new  shaping  of  events  by  that  destiny  which 
held  his  own  future,  as  well  as  that  of  others,  in  its  hands.  ^ 

"My  dear  Claudia,  you  must  know  to  what  money  I  allude?  \ 
The  five  thousand  which  your  Uncle  John  left  you  in  his  will.    So   , 
far  as  I  know,  you  have  not  even  drawn  any  interest  from  it  since    , 
our  marriage.     I  have  often  thought  of  speaking  to  you  on  the  sub- 
ject, but,  somehow  or  other,  it  has  always  been  at  times  when  we 
were  not  together,  and  afterwards  the  thing  slipped  my  memory." 

And  all  this  time,  Claudia  had  believed  that  her  husband  had 
never  even  heard  of  that  bequest !  Without  knowing  it,  she  had  been 
^-alking  on  the  brink  of  a  dark  gulf  of  danger  !  She  shuddered  now, 
as  her  eyes  were  opened  to  look  down  into  iL 

"  I  am  waiting,  my  wife,  for  youi*  reply  to  my  request"      There 
"was  a  slight  but  subtle  alteration  in   Douglas's  tone,  and  he  was    , 
leaning  forward,  with  his  elbows  OQ  his    knees,  to   gaze  into   her 
darkening  corner. 

'■  I  have  no  money  in  Canada,  Douglas,"  she  blurted  forth,  in 
desperation.     "Nor  anywhere  else,  either." 

"  How  ? "  he   ejaculaied.      "  Your  father  gave   me   to  under. 

Etand^ Besides,   I   saw   the  documents   to    prove   it,      I  made 

arrangements  that  the  legacy  should  remain  your  own  after  marriage. 
Claudia,  for  God's  sake  explain  yourself.  If  you  want  this  money 
for  any  special  purpose,  say  so.  I  can  raise  what  is  required  elsewhere, 
of  course.  I  only  thought  that,  as  that  was  lying  idle — My  dear  girl, 
be  candid.  Surely,  surely,  you  can  trust  your  husband.  And  surely,  , 
surely,  you  are  not  trying  to  deceive  me?" 

"  No,  indeed  I  am  not.  Oh,  Douglas,  I  haven't  got  that  money 
I  really  haven't," 


\ 


^  :o 


The  GcKllaKans  .T/jp 


■■'n-.irn,  wli.u  l-.avt:  you  .Lmi.-  «Kii  ii?  '  iio  .iLii.r.Tia-; -t,t:.:y. 

^..■t  ;;t  hi'T,  Ujii^Ias  saw  thai  liU  wiic  was  trcml.lirg  vi  jlen::y,  aa: 
I'ui  !•!!»:  litld  hiT  (bs]n.-d  liands  jircssL-d  atjatiisi  her  htatt, 

■■  \Vi:at   dots   it  mtan  ?     \\!iJt  .^f/^  it    nuan  ? "   munii'^ri'i  I'r,: 
yo-.:n_'    iiiin   uiuIlt  lis   brtaili.     All    ai    oiici;  an  idtn  -inuk  h;"n 
- 1  ';.;-:,;i.i,     have    you    givi-ii    t!n:    im-nt-v    V)    jour    lautr?" 
.,Mcs-.i..i:L-d. 

.-.r.d  Ci.!-.;.'!:.!  >fi/i-.!  iijioii  it.  Shi.'  did  ni.t  ^i.!.a'^■.  I'nr  ihv;  u..u-:  , 
a;;:i-i;l.T.i.in  >finiid  In  ii.ivc  lift  her,  bu;  siie  noddct'.  ussiii:. 

■■\\!i,!;?"  till.-  ■.::iT:L"i  ranif  in  !ihar;i.  .iu.-Iitc  .ucein>.    "  I-;'.i.-iv? 

A  iiiV"!:^!--  s^!!.'.l;f  I't  the  ht-ad  aiiMivrL-d. 

•■  U!:t::  ihtii  ?     IJiforc  your  m.irri.i-e ?  " 

TJ-.i*  liiiiL-  l.'b'.idij  noildi-d  ajjain, 

"IIj:  Ht  iJcctiiiiil  mi:  about  /'/.//.  also,  tlicn?  And; 
(.'"audia  -1  i'.''ni  iimliTsiand  why  did  you  ni.t  tdl  me  this  befcr. 
H'W  lould  you  btliove.  as  you  haw  always  iiruffsscd  to  do,  lh\ 
)  u:  :j:!.i.r  was  s.>  wcaitliy  wl-.cn  he  had  robbed  you  of  your  liii 
r  :•.  ■;-.■ '  l\r  ::i.-.ivi'ns  sake,  tliar  uj'  this  imsten-.  Claudia.  I  mu 
i     ..  :hL- whjle  liriiinistames  of  the  case." 

■•>  >o-.:  >h.\U,  I>iii!^!.5s.  tii-morrow.  Only  wait  till  lo-mpnw 
_-j.i  r!a^d:a.  lindin^  vice  at  last.  "I  will  tell  you  everjlhing  u 
r.-:~-'v.  And  don't  speak,  (■lease,  to  paja  about  -about  it  lo-nigh 
;i^     1  will  pel  bill)  to  tell  yoi:  hiinsell." 

•■  \\'hateviT  there  is  to  tell,  I  must  know  it  before  I  skcf 
-;--oineil  herluwliand  firmly,  ''Oh,  CKtuilia.  what  docs  this  mea 
■"•>  d:irk  cloud  tint  has  risen  up  between  you  and  incP-lliere 
•  'v.K-one  at  ihe  dn.ir     Come  in  ;  " 

■If you  jilt-ire.  sir,  Mr.  Sloanc  wishe-  to  speak  whh  you  for 
■;*  r.ionient.i " 

y.:  Sloane  wa.-;  the  young  squire's  bailiff,  an  honest  man,  who 
a;  I.  ir.d  .'iscretion  in  carrying  out  Ins  plans  and  reformations  < 
t"-.  .;'  y.i  ten.tnlry  had  won  his  employer's  cordbl  liking  ai 
.-c-.i:. 

■    ■  ■;  .T.-  hjve  you  shown  him  ?  "  he  asked  the  serv.mt. 

•  ':■;  1  s:.-  i:i  the  hall,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "Mr.  Kslcoi 
*».  n  :ti:  .'.ri.->-,  :aid  Mr.  Sloane  seemed  only  to  want  to  say  a  wo 


-  Jt.  "  Vii^'ifc  scTid  papa  in  here  to  me,  please  ! "  interposed  1 
"1  wH  ^.ij  ^™  "  J'°"  ^^  once,"  was  Douglas's  rejoindi 


The  Unforeseen,  53 

"  Shall  I  ring  for  nurse  ?    I  am  afraid  the  poor  little  fellow  has  hifl 
himself  with  that  fan." 

He  suited  the  action  to  his  words,  and  as  Claudia  caught  up  tb 
crying  infant,  quitted  the  room. 


Chapter  XXIII, 

nSCONCERTED.  I 

A  MINUTE  or  two  later  Mr.  Estcourt  entered,  closely  followed  lij 
a  servant,  who  had  come  in  to  light  the  apartment.  Claudia  watch^ 
the  young  footman  with  deep  impalience,  as  he  went  about  performini 
this  task  in  what  appeared  to  her  an  unusually  dilatory  manner.  In 
the  sweep  of  more  personal  anxieties,  Claudia  had  forgotten  for  th< 
moment  all  about  that  dire  calamity  wherewith  her  father  wa 
threatened  ;  and  nothing  in  his  appearance,  as  she  bestowed  upta 
him  a  hasty  salute,  had  served  to  remind  her  of  it.  Her  whok 
thoughts  and  emotions,  in  fact,  were  concentrated  upon  on* 
dominant  desire — that  of  gelling  Mr.  Estcourt  alone  for  a  briei 
space  before  her  husband  relumed.  She  could  have  shaken  thai 
good-looking  John  Thomas  for  stepping  about  the  room  with  such  s 
soft  cat-like  tread,  and  lowering  the  bhnds  with  that  unnecessarj 
gentleness  and  deliberation;  and  she  could  haveshaken  her  father aftet" 
wards,  when  the  nurse  came  in  and  he  refused  to  give  up  the  baby, 
whom  he  had  taken  in  his  arms  and  was  dandling  about  in  a  vcij 
masculine  and  unhandy  fashion. 

"  Oh,  papa,  do  let  Helsham  have  him ! "  she  exclaimed  a) 
length,  positively  stamping  her  foot  with  vexation.  "He  hai 
been  here  so  long  ;  and  he  wants  food  Take  him  away,  HelsbaiD, 
at  once." 

"  Now,  papa,  sit  down— sit  here— please,"  she  went  on  eagerly, 
the  moment  they  were  alone  together,  motioning  Mr.  Estcourt  to  tht 
chair  Douglas  had  been  occupying,  and  which  stood  with  its  bad 
to  the  conservatory  formerly  described  as  opening  out  of  this  apart 
ment.     "  I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear."  Mr.  Estcourt  settled  himself  in  the 
chair  with  a  sigh  of  comfort.  "  What  a  pretty  room  this  is!  And 
what  a  nice  warm  fire  I "  he  stretched  out  his  hands  towards  thi 
blaze. 

"  O,  papa,  never  mind  the  fire !  listen  to  me,"  pleaded  hil 
daughter.     "  I  want  to  speak  to  you  before  Douglas  comes  in.     Ym 


Ym 


T%g  GmUtmaus  Magazine, 

liiuB  ifcirwj.ltir  XJ-IIT  !■--'•'--'- J-'-i'-t  — '  Well,  I  want 
yoB  to  sr  ^^  7°"  ^**^  ii^  1^''*'  nnKri  (t>At  I  g^ve  it  you.     Papa, 

**  BK  I  bmcB^  had  ix."  he  retained,  looking  at  her  in  dull 
maoia.  Tho^  lus  &ce  dovijr  K^ited  up.  "  Ah !  that's  a  good 
idea,  I  Bov  thoagbt  of  it  before.  Cbudis,  lend  me  that  money,  I 
cao  vanctK.  w^  posiuao  wA  il  I  know  of  a  splendid  speculation, 
a  SHR  «a]r  of  mkng  a  factme.  Do  lend  it  me,  my  girl ;  you  shall 
ttare  k  back  a  AoasaadfoU.    Yoo  win,  will  you  not  ?  " 

**  R^n,  IsteB,  POT,  pny  bsteo  !  I  haven't  got  the  money,  I 
hare  iM/ it  Dongbs  does  not  knoir  how,  and  I  cannot  tell  him 
bow.  Papa,  jon  UBt  help  dk,  yoti  must  sare  me !  Don't  you  love 
ne,  £uber,  dear?" 

"Losth?  The  five  tboasand?"  A  look  of  stupid  bewildemient 
sented  upon  Mr.  Estcotui's  couDtciusce.  "  Did  you  buy  shares  in 
ibe  Sih-er  Star  iline,  Ctandia?' 

**  P^tt,  papa,  how  staptd — ob,  how  stupid  and  unkind  you  are ! " 
cried  Claudia,  in  petolant  irritation.  "  Do  try  to  pay  attention  to 
what  I  am  saying  to  yoa.  I  do  not  wish  my  huslxuid  to  know  how 
I  hare  hist  the  money,  and  so  I  want  you  to  pretend  that  I  gave  it 

to  you.     It  cannot  make  any  difference  to  you " 

"  But  it  would  make  a  difference  to  me,  a  mighty  difference,  by 
Jove,  if  I  had  it  I  I  could  save  myself  from  ruin.  No,  I  am  ruined  ; 
but  1  could  get  everithing  back  again,  more  than  everything! 
Claudia,  I  am  a  penniless  b^gar.  Are  you  sure  you  can't  lend  me 
any  money  ?  " 

Cbudia  clenched  her  hands  in  the  effort  to  control  her  impatient 
anguish  of  mind.  "  You  shall  have  a  home  with  us,  dear  papa,"  she 
began.     "You  shall  never  miss  a  single  comfort,  only — — " 

"  Only,  that's  not  what  I  want,"  he  broke  in,  "  I— I  like  to  fed 
independent,  naturally,  at  my  age.  And  Awdry  and  1,  you  see,  we 
don't  exactly  hit  it.  It  would  be  far  better,  far  better  for  us  all, 
Claudia,  if  you  would  lend  me  the  money." 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do?"  She  wrung  her  hands  in  despair, 
remembering  now  wliat  she  had  been  told  as  to  her  father's 
condition.  It  was  plain,  indeed,  that  his  brain  was  touched.  Hehad 
actually  forgotten  what  she  had  saida  niiniile  ago!  But  she  must  make 
another  effort  to  achieve  her  purpose.  "  Papa  dear,  try  to  under- 
stand," she  said,  kneeling  by  his  side  and  speaking  very  slowly  and 
gently.  "  I  have  told  Douglas  already  thai  I  gave  you  my  uncle's 
legacy  before  our  marriage,  and  unless  you  want  to  kill  me  with 
shame  and  sorrow,  to  bring  mc  to  ryin,  as  well  as  yourself,  you  must 


The  Unforeseen,  533 

■:«pport  me  in  what  I  have  said.    You  must  (ell  him  that  I  did  give 
T  it  you." 

"But  I  never  had  it     I'm  sure  I  never  had,  Claudia  1 " 

"  Good  gracious,  papa,  you  will  drive  me  mad.  Of  course,  1 
know  you  did  not  have  it,  but— — ■" 

"  Of  course  you  know  he  Hd  not  have  it  1" 

Whose  voice  was  that?  Claudia  did  not  recognise  its  strange 
and  husky  tones,  neither,  for  half  an  instant,  as  she  turned  round 
with  a  startled  cry,  did  she  recognise  the  speaker.  At  the  end  of 
that  half  instant,  however,  she  saw  that  it  was  her  husband  who 
stood  there,  ghastly  pale,  by  the  conservatory  door.  How  long  had 
he  been  in  the  room?  How  could  he  have  come  in  without  her 
hearing  him  ? 
L       "  Douglas  1 "    She  gasped  hia  name  with  a  piteous,  deprecating 

r  But  the  young  man  did  not  at  once  slin  Holding  hia  hat  in  his 
hand,  he  remained  as  if  transfixed  to  the  spot,  staring  at  her  with  a 
Btony,  stricken  air. 

"  What  is  it,  Claudia  ? "  demanded  Mr.  Estcourt  in  the  vacant, 
puKzled  manner  that  was  becoming  habitual  to  him.  "Why,  Awdry" 
— he  had  turned  as  he  spoke  to  look  behind  liim— "  I  didn't  know 
you  were  in  the  room.     I  didn't  see  you  come  in." 

"So  I  presume.  But  there  was  no  mystery,  air,  about  my 
entrance,"  rejoined  Awdry — his  eyes  still  upon  his  wife.  "  I  had 
gone  outside  with  my  steward,  and  I  came  in  this  way  through  the 
greenhouses.    The  matting  I  suppose  deadened  the  sound  of  my 

itsteps  ;  and  so— though  I  did  not  mean  to  eavesdrop — I  came 

m  a  scene  and  overheard  a  conversation  which  I  can  easily  believe 
was  not  intended  for  my  ears." 

"  Douglas  !  "  Claudia  cried  again ;  and  at  this  repetition  of  hia 
name  her  husband  stepped  forward  and  laid  his  hand  upon  a  table. 

"Get  up!"  he  commanded  sternly,  but  without  helping  her  to 
rise.     "  Come  here  1 " 

Claudia  obeyed.  Ah  !  how  changed  was  this  way  of  addressing 
her— this  way  of  treating  her,  on  the  part  of  her  hitherto  adoring 
husband !  Her  knees  shook  so  tliat  they  would  hardly  carry  her 
towards  him. 

"  Turn  this  way,  with  your  face  to  the  light.  Now  look  at  me  I  " 
Douglas  had  laid  a  hand  on  each  of  her  shoulders.  "  Look  straight 
into  my  eyes ! " 

She  essayed  to  do  so.  But  the  intense,  searching  gaze  that  met 
.ber  own  was  more  than  she  could  bean     At  the  end  of  a  second  her^ 


■  gree 
■«>ot 
Jiipoi 


Tke  Gemtftmam'i  Magazine. 

ber  &oe  aad  neck,  and,  to  cover 
A  Side  bjsteiical  laugh. 
mAl  Let  me  go,"  she  said,  shrinking 
-■  ■"  «"«»o«irfBi  the  grasp  of  her  shouldeis. 
Twiis?  TUi  cowoin^  giultjr-Iooking  creatute?"  he 
rhiskKoA  -Clmiii,a»idia,  for  pity's  sake  t«lie%e 
ToB  kne  toU  mc  a  Ke— a  mtsenible,  black,  «-il_fiil,  lie. 
■•  bid  jvMT  btbo-  join  in  the  deception.  But  oh, 
I  Aae  a  nMhiDg  «vse  behind.  You  cannot  be  all 
:  far,  OTCM  bee.    I  caanol  be  alti^ether  deceived  in 

*  N4^  ■&    Indeed  yvn  hc  not,  Doo^ ! "  she  broke  in  eagerly. 

"lbe«  tcB  ne  ctae&T  »b«  yoo  have  done  with  that  j^s.ooo. 

EiffaB  b>  Be  wist  jrm  "eu*  by  «jing— by  talking  about  '  shame 

md  «now'  and  'nan'  in  conectioD  with  anything  you  can  have 

,  iaut    Cbndb,  «*««  «mU  you— what  touU  you  hax-e  meant  by 

*■  I  <fid  not  mean  snydtiog  by  it,"  she  protesle±  "  O,  Douglas ! 
Yoo  Me  hmniB  me.  Yoor  hands  are  like  iron !  Please  let  me  sit 
do«i.- 

He  loosened  bb  fiogezs,  and  she  sank  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"  You  cannot  teD  me,  then  ?  You  will  not  eTplain  ?  "  he  asked 
inih  another  daauss  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  wtU.     I  will  ten  you  everything  to-morrow,  alt  you  want 


"  T»-morrfnt)  I  Ves,  when  you  have  had  lime  to  concoct  a  story. 
That  will  not  do,  madam."  The  tone  was  so  ringing  and  harsh 
with  pain  and  withering  contempt,  that  Claudia  shuddered,  and  Mr. 
Estcourt  rose  from  his  chair,  tottering  like  an  old  man  and  holding 
out  his  hands  in  feeble  remonstrance. 

"  Dear  me  !  Dear  me  1  What  is  it  all  about,  Awdty  ?  AVhat 
has  she  done  ?    I  don't  understand." 

"I  am  glad  you  don't,"  returned  his  soo-in-law.  "Be  kind 
enough  not  to  interfere,  Mr.  Estcourt  I  will  give  you  three  minutes' 
grace,  Claudia,  to  begin  your  confession  spontaneously — to  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  shall  have  something  to 
say,"     He  took  out  his  watch  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Oh  !  how  you  frighten  me,  Douglas,  How  can  I  tell  you  any- 
thing whilst  you  look  like  that?"  cried  his  wife,  in  whose  alarm 
there  was  no  pretence.  "  How  dreadfully  unkind  you  are  to  treat 
me  so  I " 

"  If  )'Our  conscience  is  free  from  wrong  joii  can  have  no  fear  of 


The  Unforeseen. 


539 


I 


Tme,  your  liusband,"  he  answered,  liia  lips  quivering  as  lie  glanced  al 
l-»er  pretty  young  face,  whicli  had  grown  as  white  or  whiter  than  h 
C3ini. 

Then,  not  trusting  himself  to  look  again,  he  bent  his  eyes  on  h 
^^-atch,  and  so  remained  until  the  three  minutes  had  expired. 
1-iad  passed  in  silence. 

"  Now,  listen."  He  put  his  watch  into  his  pocket,  and  took  a 
Srtep  nearer  to  her.  "Listen  to  me,  Claudia  Until  you  havaj 
-written  me  out  a  full,  true,  and  detailed  explanation  of  this  affair—^ 
'Khis  wretched  secret,  whatever  it  may  be— I  am  no  longer  your  hu9<i 
fcand,  nor  are  you  my  wire.  Unless  you  give  me  that  account  by  tt^ 
STioiTOW,  I  shall  leave  home,  and  I  shall  not  return  before  I  receive  it. 
-^□d,  mind,  there  will  be  no  possibility  of  deceiving  me  in  the  matteti 
H  shall  sift  the  truth  of  whatever  you  may  tell  me  to  the  bottom.^ 
JHaving  discovered  that  you  are  capable  of  falsehood,  I  can  no  longai 
x-ely  upon  your  bare  assertion," 

With  these  words  lie  seized  his  hat,  and  before  Claudia's  paralysed 
*ongue  could  frame  a  syllable  in  reply  he  had  left  the  room. 

Then  a  burst  of  tears  cime  lo  the  relief  of  her  over-strained 
^nature,  and  she  wept  with  hysterical  violence.  Poor  Mr.  Estcour^ 
■weeping  himself  In  bewildered  distress,  strove  to  comfort  her  \  bail 
<Jlaudia  repulsed  him  roughly.  '       i 

"  It's  your  fault,  papa !  "  she  exclaimed  with  angry  vehemence^ 
■*everung  to  her  old  habit  of  shuffling  the  blame  of  her  misdeeds  from 
lier  own  shoulders.  "  It's  your  fault  You  should  have  done  what  I 
masked  you,  It  was  horribly  selfish  of  you  when  it  could  have  done 
jou  no  harm  to  listen  to  me.  And  now,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do.  Douglas  is  so  peculiar — so  strait-laced  in  his  notions.  Oh  I 
^hat  shall  I  do  ?    What  can  I  do  ? " 

Thus  alternately  bemoaning  herself  and  accusing  her  father  ol 
lieing  the  cause  of  all  her  troubles,  Claudia  wore  off  the  first  edge  ol 
lier  alarm ;  and  regaining  some  measure  of  confidence  in  herself,  and 
in  her  influence  over  her  husband,  as  well  as  in  what  she  was  pleased 
to  think  of  as  her  wonted  good  luck,  she  began  lo  pluck  up  a  little 
courage  and  to  hope  that  things  might  not  turn  out  so  badly  as  she 
had  feared.  Danger  had  menaced  her  so  long,  and  at  times  so 
closely,  and  yet  had  she  not  always  escaped  ?  Perhaps  she  might 
escape  again.  Perhaps  she  might  think  of  some  explanation — some 
story  so  plausible  that  Douglas  might  believe  without  seeking  to  verify 
it  as  he  had  threatened  to  do. 

The  gong  sounded  for  dinner  as  she  reached  this  stage  in  her  re- 
flections  ;  and  taking  her  father's  arm,  Mrs.  Douglas  Awdry  repaired 


53*  Th4  GemUmaiCs  Magazine. 

to  the  dtDing-roora,  resolved  to  .issiirae  in  her  husband's  prewitce  an 
air  of  injured  innocence  and  outraged  dignity,  which  she  trusted 
would  not  be  without  its  just  effect  upon  his  mind.  That  he  who 
Iwd  hitherto  bestowed  upon  her  such  doting  affection,  such  admiring, 
msting,  ewn  rewreni  love,  could  be  permanently  alienated  by  what 
had  ocoirrcd  was  surely  impossible.  Only  she  must  manage — she 
tKmat  manage  that  nothing  worse  should  happen. 

On  cMienag  the  diniogroom  she  glanced  round  anxiously,  but 
Doogltt  was  not  there.  The  butler  drew  out  her  chair,  and  endeav. 
oming  (0  look  unconscious  of  aught  amiss,  although  he  plainly  scented 
tranhk  b  the  air,  observed  quietly, 

*■  Master  bide  me  teU  >'ou,  madam,  that  he  had  gone  out,  and 
dul  be  shouM  not  return  to  dinner." 


CHAPTtft  XXIV. 


4 

luftrhprtn   nn  ili«    ' 


A  TRACtC    ENDING. 

RtrskANli  and  wife  did  not  meet  again  before  hmchedn  on  the 

foltowing  day.    Vet  neither  of  them  had  left  ihc  house  throughout 

the  momtng,    Douglas,  who  had  passt-d  the  nighl  entirely  without 

deeii,  had  waited  in  the  library  in  the  hope  thai  Claudia  would  bring 

or  tend  htra  (hat  written  communication  he  had  demanded  of  her. 

Cbudia,  (or  her  pan,  had  spent  the  long,  restless  hours  in  her  own 

private  sitting-room,  listening,  with  mingled  fear  and  hope,  for  her 

husband's  approaching  (botstep.    She  had  concocted  a  story  relative 

to  the  loss  of  ha  tive  thousand  pounds  ;  but  she  had  not  dared  to 

commit  it  to  paper,  as  he  had  bidden  her,  for  she  was  sensible  that 

there  were  weak  points  in  it— that,  if  examined  too  closely,  it  might 

not  be  found  to  hold  water.     Neither  had  she  dared  to  seek  Douglas 

out  with  that  talc.     (For  the  life  of  her  she  could  think  of  no  better 

one-)     If,  however,  hewouldbut  come  to  her — and  by  so  doing  prove 

his  anxiety  for  reconciliation — then,  Claudia  had  fell  all  might  be 

well.    Then,  she  would  venture  lo  tell  him  her  story ;  she  would 

intcrlant  it  with  protestations  of  affection  ;  and  his  love  would  put  it 

out  of  his  power  to  carp  at,  or  criticise,  her  statements.     So  she  had 

tried  to  ho|«;  and  persuade  herself.     But  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 

alas,  Claudia  had  all  along  been  conscious  of  a  sickening  presentiment 

of  evil,  which,  as  the  tardy  moments  dragged  themselves  away  without 

bringing  her  husband  to  her,  had  so  increased  in  force  thai  it  had 

re/iised  to  be  stifled. 


The  Unforeseen.  337 

Once,  indeed,  she  had  thought  Douglas  was  coming,  and  her 
heart  had  leaped  into  her  mouth.  But  the  man's  Tootstep  had  turned 
out  to  be  only  that  of  Mr.  Estcourt,  His  entrance  had  so  dlsap- 
'  pointed  her,  that  Claudia  had  been  on  the  point  of  greeting  her  father 
*^(h  a  welcome  the  reverse  of  filial.  Something,  however,  in  his 
appearance  had  arrested  the  unkind  words  on  her  tongue.  Never, 
until  this  moment,  liad  his  daughter  realised  how  great  was  the  change 
which  had  come  over  the  once  flourishing  Quebec  merchant.  In 
former  days  there  had  been  a  dignity  about  his  carriage  and  demeanour, 
nov^  entirely  vanished.  His  expression  and  his  conversation  had 
l>et«kened  intelligence  ;  his  disposition  had  been  amiable,  his  man- 
ners gentlemanly  and  prepossessing.  Now  his  gait  had  become 
si  o(jching,  his  movements  fidgety,  his  speech  wandering  and  unccr- 
**in,  his  spirits  variable— one  moment  unaccountably  elated,  the  next 
*^c»T-respondingly  depressed.  Moreover,  within  the  last  year,  and,  as 
*'  riow  struck  Claudia,  more  particularly  within  the  last  month  or 
'^'O,  her  father  had  grown  to  look  years  older.  In  the  full  daylight 
*'so,  she  now  noticed,  as  she  had  failed  to  do  last  evening,  that 
^'»"eaks  of  grey  showed  plentifully  in  his  hair,  and  that  he  looked 
*^together  shrunken  and  enfeebled. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  her  own  pressing  disquietudes,  a  movement 
^^  compassion  took  possession  of  her,  and  Claudia  returned  to  the 
^^•icken  man,  this  morning,  some  of  the  tenderness  which  he  had  for- 
''^ejly  lavished  so  freely  upon  her. 

Douglas,  too— when  the  three  met  at  the  lunch  eon -table — showed 
"*3  father-in-law  particular  attention  and  consideration.     He  had  a 
*^iisc  of  having  been  somewhat  unjust  towards  the  poor  man — of 
'having  neglected  to  make  suflicient  allowance  in  his  judgments  re- 
specting his  conduct,  for  that  brain  disorder  which  might  have  been 
^'^txiing  on  longer  even  than  the  physicians  now  suspected.     One 
**'Hg,  at  any  rate,  had  been  made  dear  to  him  on  the   previous 
^^eniog,  through  the  conversation   he  had  overheard — ;>.,  that  as 
^Rarded  the  mysterious,  and,  according  to  Claudia's  own  showing, 
*^^tpable  disposal  of  her  legacy,  Mr.  Estcourt  had  had  neither  share 
**^»-  knowledge. 

Luncheon  over,  the  young  squire  detained  his  wife  for  a  brief 
^^^rjvcrsalion.     "  Have  you  prepared  that  paper  for  me,  Claudia  ?  " 
asked. 
"  No,  dear  ;  but  why  should  you  wish  me  to  write  ?     Come  with 
*   into  another  room,  Dougl.is,  and  let  me  tell  you  everything?" 
"  I  have  already  gi  ^en  you  my  derision  on  that  subject,"  he  replied 
Speaking  all  the  more  stiftiy  because  lie  found  it  hatd  to  te.fe«.l  Visx 
:i.  /S54.  "*  ^ 


538  The  GentUmafCs  Magazine. 

pleading  tone.  "  I  require  the  statement  in  writing.  When  you 
have  got  it  ready,  you  will  please  send  it  after  me  to  London.  I 
leave  this  afternoon  by  the  five  o'clock  express." 

"Oh,  Douglas  !  Do  you  want  to  break  my  heart?  You  caiit 
mean  to  go  away  and  leave  me  like  this?  "  she  cried. 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  the  young  man's  face.  '^  How  do  you 
suppose  my  heart  feels,  Claudia,  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  shall  return  directly 
I  receive  your  explanation.  And,  in  any  case/'  he  added,  looldng 
back  on  her  with  a  softened  glance,  as  he  turned  to  quit  the  room, 
"  in  any  case,  I  should  have  to  go  up  to  town  for  a  few  days,  in  order 
to  arrange  Mr.  Estcourt's  affairs,  of  which  I  have  now  assumed  tbe 
responsibility." 

"  But  you  will  not  leave  without  seeing  me  again  ?  Without 
saying  good-bye  ?  "  she  called  after  him.  The  misery  in  her  voice 
was  so  unequivocal,  that  Douglas  replied  by  a  dissentient  shake  of 
the  head. 

No,  he  would  not  leave  her  without  a  word  of  farewell.  How  he 
loved  her  still,  that  beautiful  young  wife  of  his,  despite  the  terrible 
blow  which  his  faith  in  her  had  received !  If  he  could  only  have 
awakened  to  find  that  scene  of  last  evening  a  dream,  Douglas  felt 
that  he  would  willingly  have  sacrificed  half  his  possessions — ^luty,  the 
whole  of  them  ! 

He  was  walking  now  across  the  park.  It  had  occurred  to  him  to 
go  and  call  upon  Olivia  Ashmcad,  and  to  beg  her  to  be  as  much 
with  Claudia  as  she  could  during  his  absence.  His  object  in  this, 
he  had  not  very  clearly  defined,  even  to  himself;  but  he  had  a  vague 
idea  that  his  wife  might  be  brought  to  confide  her  trouble  (her  folly, 
or  sin,  as  the  case  might  be)  to  Olivia,  and  he  had  the  strongest 
reliance  on  the  benefit  which  Olivia's  influence  and  advice  would,  in 
that  case,  afford  her. 

On  reaching  Mrs.  Ashmead's  house,  he  was  shown  into  the 
morning-room,  where  he  found  that  lady  alone,  engaged  in  sealing  a 
note  which  she  had  just  written. 

''  I  hope  Olivia  is  at  home,  aunt  ? "  he  inquired,  shaking  hands 
(at  times  Douglas  still  addressed  her  by  this  term  of  relationship,  to 
which  she  had  no  title ). 

"  Why,  did  not  (Claudia  tell  you  ?  Rose  sent  for  her  rather 
suddenly  ;  her  baby  is  not  very  well.  Olivia  went  to  Longenvale 
yesterday  morning.     I  wonder  Claudia  did  not  mention  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  she  is  away  just  now,"  observed  Douglas. 

"  And  so  am  I,  because Douglas,  do  you  see-^this  note  is 

for  you  ?    Iwas  on  the  point  of  sending  it  to  ask  you  to  come  here. 


The  Unforeseen.  539 

I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  ought  to  do— but  something  a  little 
peculiar  has  happened" 

"  Yes?    Is  it  anything  I  can  help  you  about?  "  he  inquired 

"  O,  it  does  not  concern  myself,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Ashmead  "  The 
(act  is  it  concerns  you — ^)'0U  and  Claudia." 

"  Yes? "  he  again  interrogated. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  tell  what  to  do."  Mrs.  Ashmead  drew  a 
letter  from  her  pocket  as  she  spoke.  ''  I  have  been  so  greatly 
surprised.  But,  of  course,  you  must  have  known  all  about  it. 
Only  it  seems  so  strange,  so  very  strange,  that  you  should  have  kept 
it  from  us,  Douglas.'' 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ashmead^  you  are  talking  in  riddles !  "  protested 
the  young  man,  struggling  against  the  undefined  apprehension  which 
her  words  were  awakening  within  him.  '^  Be  kind  enough  to  speak 
plainly." 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  mean  to*  tell  you  what  we  have  heard,'' 
resumed  his  companion.  "  I  was  sending  for  you  on  purpose.  It  is 
in  this  letter."  She  turned  over  the  one  in  her  hand.  "  The  letter 
is  from  Robert  Hilton — Edith's  husband,  you  know — ^and  it  is 
addressed  to  Olivia.  I  shouldn't  have  opened  it  if  Olivia  had  been 
at  home,  but  Robert  has  never  written  to  her  before,  and  naturally, 
you  see,  I  was  afraid,  when  I  saw  the  direction,  that  something  might 
be  wrong  with  Edith.  But  it  wasn't  that,  and,  though  I  don't 
knew  whether  Olivia  would  say  I  am  doing  right  or  not,  I  think  you 
ought  to  know." 

"  If  it  is  anything  that  concerns  my  wife  or  myself,  I  am  sure  I 
ought  to  know,"  put  in  Douglas,  trying  to  keep  calm. 

"  O,  as  for  that,  you  must  know — if  it  is  true,  that  is.  But  I  think 
it  hardly  can  be. — Douglas,  haven't  you  always  told  us  that  your 
wife  was  a  Miss  Estcourt  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  have,"  he  answered,  opening  his  eyes  wide. 

'*  She  was  not  a  widow,  then,  was  she  ?  " 

Douglas  burst  out  laughing.  '^  A  widow  ?  Claudia !  I  should 
think  not ! " 

"  Ah,  it  must  have  been  some  other  Claudia  Estcourt,  then,  of 
course.  I  thought  it  was  impossible  that  you  should  have  deceived 
us !  Robert  Hilton  has  found  a  mare's  nest  I'm  glad  I've  told 
you,  though,  for  my  own  satisfaction." 

"  You  have  not  told  me  anytliing  yet,  aunt." 

"  No  ?  Well,  it  is  not  of  much  consequence,  since  it  is  not  our 
Claudia.  But  it  seems  that  Robert  Hilton  has  found  in  the  register, 
book  of  a  church  somewhere  near  Montreal— and,  by  the  way — it  it 

PP3 


Tie  GaUiewum's  Magazine. 


W 

^pflKo^csiaBAnsmAevadd,  bat  it  appears,  ftom  the  letter, 
'   Atfil«asObBi«ABjdKd  Unto  look  through  it!    How  can  that 

Sis.  .&shMad«KbB9^Axnng  the  letter  from  its  envelope,  so 
Atf  Ae  Ai  aat  BodDC  de  ntddea  change  in  her  interlocutor's 

"  ll  «H  ■■  a*  aid  tcpHij—  &hu-  or  frre  fears  ago — and  that  of 
MWB  tktf  It  coBldii\  by  any  possibility  have  been 
E  dc  «aiU  then  have  been  a  mere  child.  It 
If,  K9>f,  to  talk  about  it.  Hamph,  here  it  is! 
■ed  «a^  due  and  sQ,  the  record  of  a  marriage 
X3amSa.  Enoont,  and  a  Hubert  Henry  Stenbouse, 
di  took  pbcc  at  a  vOage  caHed  Sl  Anioine.  But  the  curious 
(  it— vi^.  ^ea  ca^  OStim.    Oh  !    Doughs,   what    is  the    . 

ter?    Vim  took  »  sttiage  *    Could  it  after  all " 

"mjsakiadyaSawiB^  Mis.  Ashmead,  to  read  that  letter?" 
blBBg  ool  lus  band  for  it. 
Yes,  lend  it  for  yuurself,"  she  assented-     "  But  I 
liam^  hope  that  I  faarc  boI  done  any  mischief?  " 

He  Ad  BOI  Kffyi  far  already  his  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  = 
kllec.    Uis.  AAaiMd  watched  him  read  it  through  once,  tvrice,    . 
drree  liotCL     Then  die  yxag  man  rose,  cast  a  blank  look  around 
AenMiB,as  Aooghrecalhi^to  himself  where  he  was,  and  advancing 
with   a   faned   and    ghastly  smile,  held  out   his    hand    to   say, 
"Good-bye." 

"  Don't  go  yet,  Douglas,"  entreated  Mrs.  Ashmead.  "  Let  me 
get  you  a  ^ass  of  wine  ?  Something  is  wrong,  I  can  see  !  Tell  me 
what  it  is.     Do  let  me  get  you  some  wine  ?  " 

**  I  have  nothing  to  tcU,  aunt.     No,  thank  you,  no  wine  !  " 
He  broke  from  her  abruptly,  and  before  Mrs.   Ashmead  could 
recover  presence  of  mind  for  further  speech,  was  gone. 

"And  he  has  taken  the  letter  with  him  1  Dear,  dear,  something 
without  doubt,  is  wrong  !  I  wish  I  hadn't  opened  the  letter.  1  wish 
Olivia  was  at  home,"  murmured  Mrs.  Ashmead,  sinking  back  into 
her  chair,  with  a  sense  of  bewildered  uneasiness. 

Meanwhile,  Douglas  Awdry  was  striding  back  towards  his  home. 
"Behind  his  back,  in  his  clenched  right  fist,  he  carried  the  letter,  which 
had,  as  he  felt,  dealt  the  deaih-blow  to  all  his  hopes  of  eatlhly 
happiness.  His  ashy  while  face  looked  terrible  in  its  expression  of 
wild  despair  and  indignant  rage.  A  carriage  passed  him  in  the 
ai-enue,  containing  his  s\sUT-\n-\a*,  >\i'i.  ^wdtv,  who  had  bcei} 


Jtitig  a.  brief  call  upon  Claudia.  The  two  Mrs.  Awdrys  had  never 
been  very  friendly  with  each  other,  but,  notwithstanding  her 
explosion  of  resentment  on  account  of  his  hasty  marriage,  his 
brother's  widow  had  long  ago  received  Douglas  back  into  her  favour. 
There  were  few  people  who  could  know  the  new  Squire  without  both 
liking  and  respecting  hira. 

But,  as  she  passed  him  this  afternoon,  Douglas  did  not  even 
glance  at  the  carriage,  and,  quite  startled  by  his  aspect,  Mrs.  Awdry 
put  her  head  through  the  window  and  watched  him  till  he  was  out  of 
sight,  wondering  what  could  be  amiss,  and  resolving  within  herself 
to  make  some  excuse  to  call  again  at  the  Chase  to-morrow,  and  find 

it  out. 

Before  entering  the  room  where  he  knew  that  his  wife  sat  alone 
(Mr.  Estcourt  liaving,  as  he  had  just  learned,  gone  out  for  a  ride), 
IDouglaa  paused  lo  take  himself  under  better  control.  He  could  not, 
however,  get  back  either  his  usual  colour  or  his  usual  mien.  But,  for 
a  while,  Claudia  did  not  notice  her  husband's  appearance.  She  was 
crying  bitterly,  and,  on  perceiving  that  it  was  he,  she  went  on,  in  the 
hope  that  her  demonstrative  grief  would  touch  Douglas's  heart 

Without  a  syllable  of  comment  or  remonstrance,  the  latter  drew  a 
chair  opposite  to  her,  and  waited.  By-and-by,  however,  the  utter 
silence,  the  strange,  motionless  patience  of  her  companion  began  to 
affect  Claudia  curiously.  An  ominous  shudder  passed  over  her 
frame,  a  chill  dread  struck  through  her  breast,  she  dried  her  eyes  and 
looked  up. 

^f        "  Have  you  finished  ?   Can  you  attend  now  to  something  I  have 

^Kd  say  to  you  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

^K      *'  Oh,    Douglas,   what   is  it  i" "  ejaculated  his  wife.     *'  Nothing 

^B      A  cynical  smile  curied  his  lip.     "  Well,  yes,  it  is  certamly  new  to 
^Rne,"  he  answered.     "  I  have  just  learnt  something  about  an  event 
■which  took  place  on  August  the  4th,  18 — .     Does  that  date  recall 
to  your  mind  any  circumstance  of  moment  in  your  oini  history  ?  " 

"  Douglas  1  Douglas  ! "  Claudia  fell  at  his  feet  and  tried  to  clasp 
his  knees.     Firmly,  but  gently,  however,  Douglas  put  her  away. 

*'  I  do  not  want  a  scene,  please.  The  time  for  anything  of  this 
Sort  is  passed.  Be  good  enough  to  resume  your  seat  Vou  do  not 
deny,  then,  that  on  that  date  I  have  mentioned  you  were  married  in 
the  English  church  at  St.  Antoine  ?  " 

She  did  not  deny  it,  for  she  saw  that  lo  do  so  would  be  worse 
_  than  useless.  She  only  groaned,  clasping  her  hands,  and  rocking  lo 
HMmd    fro  in  piteous  misery.     But  no  com^as'.iQ'fl,  tiq  ^Vi.4oi-w   tS. 


.  ^     J-ins^-T^i  :.i .-  JJzrzZlKz. 


-:.  ip  :o 


'::>.  ±e 


Limine 


-r-^^= — tiz'     ;.jt,  rerzjjiii 


■.:w25 


.-IT 

V  -_    ■ 


T-r—   ■  — 


— •  :    T_"; 


-    -  .  —  -     "■ ■  •  'J 

—  # 

-.    -^^      -  .:   I  Li  z:z  ir.:»-  i:,  and 

I  'Jiisk 


■A," 


nr"*'  ■:rjc.  vou 
r.:ir5  ill  j.~o-:  his 

lire  -—  :r.  tr.eback- 
■  i-nir  A-c  :oldrae 


j^h  ::  :5  rossible 
:  :J:e  roin:.  But 
in  ess,  otA  I  feel 
-J en  committing 


x-^   ^  .s  .   v.'-'t:  sLcio:.     C--ii^  ^rcn^i  her  I:rs  once  or 

V   s-:.-i.     >*i  r-^-i-'iri  ::  iii  'tr  'r.-ii2zzd  how  he  had  made 

..--    .  S.V  -T-      >:•;  v-iJiri-i  ::  siy  scnicdui:^— anything — thai 

s  lock  ou:  of  his  face.    But  the 


xeferring  to  the  cnxmpled 
die  name  of  the  hero 


I 


t 


of  your  tale — that  vagrant  adventurer,   as  I  Jiave  al' 
Juno,  was  Suphens  1 " 

Claudia  faltered  an  affirmative. 

"  And  what  was  the  object  of  that  falsehood,  I  wonder  ?  The 
lame  of  the  person  whom  you  married  was  Hubert  Henry  Stenliouse." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  wasn't !  Indeed,  indeed,  it  was  not,  Douglas ! " 
^ftirmed  Claudia,  with  such  plain  conviction  that  her  husband  was 
**iOved  to  credence. 

"  Possibly,  then,  Hilton  may  have  read  the  name  incorrectly,"  he 
a«iniitted.  "  But  it  does  not  signify  one  way  or  the  other  to  me. 
•Vill  you  teil  nie  now,  how  Miss  Ashmead  came  to  know  or  suspect 
■anything  about  this  wretched  secret  ?  " 

"  Miss  Ashmead  ? "  burst  forth  Claudia.  "  Oh,  is  it  she  who  has 
<ione  all  this  harm  ?  Ill  never,  never  forgive  her.  Ill  never  speak 
to  her  again  !  " 

"  The  loss  will  be  yours,  not  hers.  Olivia  Ashmead  is  a  good 
Woman." 

*'Oh!  Douglas,  have  you  lost  all  your  love  for  me?"  Again  the 
Unhappy  wife  sank  on  her  knees.  "  Do,  do,  have  pity  on  me  !  Tell 
me  that  you  still  love  me  !  I  will  do  anything  in  the  world  to  atone 
for  the  past  Forgive  me,  Douglas  ?  Oh !  forgive  me  ?  Say  that  you 
love  me  still  ?  " 

It  was  only  withdifficulty  that  he  prevented  himself  from  spuming 
Iier.  In  his  high-minded  integrity,  with  his  oivn  scrupulous  sense  of 
Ilonour  and  truth,  Douglas  Awdry  was  perhaps  a  tittle  self-righteous. 
Decidedly  he  was  capable  of  hardness  and  severity,  of  judging  mth 
but  little  mercy,  and  condemning  with  uncompromising  rigour. 

No,  I  do  not  love  you  still,"  he  replied,  "  I  have  never 
loved  you.  TJie  Claudia  I  loved  was—"  for  a  moment  his  voice 
broke — "  was  a  creature  of  my  own  imagination — a  sweet,  true 
Woman.  You  .  .  ,  But  reproaches  are  useless,  One  last  question. 
do  I  know  alii  The  worst  that  there  is  to  know  ?  Ah !  the  five 
thousand  ?  But  I  think  I  can  guess  now,  as  to  how  that  has  gone  ! 
It  was  used,  no  doubt,  for  bribing  those  who  were  aware  of  jour 
clandestine  marriage  to  keep  the  secret  from  me,  or  anyone  else  wlio 
was  concerned  to  know  of  it     Is  that  conjecture  correct  ?  " 

There  was  one  moment  of  irresolution ;  then  the  ingrained  habit 
of  deceit  triumphed, 

"  Yes,  Douglas,  it  is.  Hubert  Stephens  had  told  those  people 
■who  came  to  inform  me  of  his  death  that  I  was  his  wife  ;  and  I  —  I 
gave  ihem  the  money  on  condition  they  promised  never  to  mention 
-what  they  knew." 


1 


544  "^^  Gtmilemas's  Magazine. 

"  It  «»s  a  hcxvf  biAie  ;  bnt  I  suppose  you  hardly  onderstoc 
nioe  <t  mooejr.— Now,  is  there  anythii^  more  ?  " 

"  Noi  aKJccd,  indtat  there  is  not : "  This  time  the  reply  canie 
«iAool  besiatiaB.  "Ofa,  Dooglis,  what  do  you  intend  to  do? 
RiCMCMheT  hov  roung  I  Rs — only  sevenieen.  And  recollect  ihai 
he  bid  s>*«d  nty  ItTc  Besides— Ob !  haven't  I  been  punished 
^na^?  ThiBkbcnr  I  ibbotred  him,  and  how  I  loved  you,  and  hov 
he  fce^  mc  from  manyiag  joo  for  so  long ! " 

**  WoaU  to  God  be  had  keptfou  from  it  altogether  !  " 

"  Doq^as,  faov  abontnuOy  ciud  yon  are  I  If  you  behave  to  me 
like  tbtSa  foa  win  make  mc  hate  you !  How  can  we  go  on  living 
tqgedia  when  3t>u  speak  to  me  so?" 

"  I  do  Dot  intend  that  we  diotild  go  on  living  together." 

"  What !  do  you  mean  to  divorce  mc  ?  "  Claudia's  lips  turned 
bine,  and,  for  a  second  or  itco,  she  appeared  upon  the  point  of  faint- 
ing. But  hei  eiciicment,  which  was  rapidly  taking  the  fonn  of 
lindictive  wrath,  pre%-ented  the  collapse. 

**  Unfortunately,  I  fear  I  cannot  do  that,"  he  rejoined,  in  the  same 
initating,  dispassionate  tone  (the  calmness  not  of  apathy,  but  of 
white-heat).  "The  law  takes  no  cc>gnisance  of  such  falseness  as 
yours.  Lying  and  deceit  go  for  nothing,  so  long  as  there  is  not 
faithlessness  of  another  sort— liille,  if  any,  worse  in  my  eyes.  But, 
though  I  cannot  cease  to  be  your  husband  in  name,  no  earthly  power 
can  force  me  to  be  more  than  that  From  to-day  we  part,  never, 
with  my  will,  to  meet  again  so  long  as  either  of  us  shall  live." 

"  You  wicked  man  !  Oh,  you  wicked,  hatd-heaited  man ! "  cried 
the  unfortunate  woman,  almost  beside  herself.  "  You  cannot  be  the 
Douglas  I  have  thought  so  good  !  U'hal  wiil  people  say  if  you 
leave  me  here  alone  ?  " 

Douglas  winced.  "  I  have  not  thought  of  what  people  will  say, 
and  we  need  not  trouble  ourselves  to  discuss  that  questioa  As  for 
leaving  you  here,  1  cannot  do  that,  since  it  will  be  my  duty  to  reside,  ' 
at  least  occasionally,  on  this  estate  myself.  I  must  ask  you,  there- 
fore, to  remove  with  your  father,  as  soon  as  you  conveniently  can,  to 
our  place  in  Devonshire — Mallow  Lodge — which,  as  you  know,  is  a 
beautifully  situated  and  most  comfortable  house." 

"  It  will  kill  me — I'm  sure  it  will :  But  I  suppose  that  is  what  you 
would  like  !  "  exclaimed  Claudia,  in  impotent  rage. 

"  I  shall  allow  you  a  liberal  income,''  pursued  Douglas,  paying  no 
heed  lo  these  ebullitions.     "  And  Mr.  Estcourt  is  welcome  to  make 

his  home  with  you.     As  for  poor  little  Eustace " 

"  Baby  ?  My  baby  \ "  CVavwiia.  i^^an^  from  her  sofa  in  an  agony 


The  Un/oresiett. 

6f  terror  and  desperation.  "  My  baby  ?  /  shall  have  hira,  of  course  1 
Vou  cannoi  dream — you  dare  not  hint  sX  such  a  thing  as  taking  him 
from  me  ? " 

Douglas  considered,  gnawing  the  while  at  his  under  lip. 

"  He  shall  remain  with  you  until  he  is  three  years  of  age,"  he 
presently  observed.  "  After  that  time  I  shall  make  a  different 
atrangement.  My  son  must  be  brought  up  to  become  an  honest  and 
trnithful  man." 

"  You  shall  never  have  him,  never  !  You  have  broken  my  heart ; 
you  will  drive  me  mad  !  When  my  poor  child  knows  ho*  you  have 
treated  his  mother,  he  will  hate  you  ! " 

*'  I  think  that  is  all,"  resumed  Douglas,  rising.  "  I  will  com- 
municate with  you  through  my  lawyer  as  to  your  yearly  allowance, 
and  at  any  time  that  you  may  require  to  address  me,  you  will  kindly 
tlo  so  through  Mr.  Kendal  also.  I  shall  just  have  time  to  catch  my 
train.     Farewell  ! " 

A  wail  of  mingled  anguish,  rage,  and  despair  followed  the  young 
uan  as  he  left  the  room,  with  his  white,  set  face,  and  stricken, 
tortured  heart.  Thus  ended  this  brief,  domestic  tragedy  I  The 
husband  and  wife  who,  up  till  yesterday,  had  loved  each  olher  with 
such  devotion,  were  separated  for  ever  I 


{To  be  eoiiUhiied.') 


\ 


546  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 


GENESIS. 

A  STONE  lying  on  the  beach  does  not  show  any  tendency  to 
grow  bigger,  or  to  divide  up  into  two  smaller  pebbles,  eacb 
of  which,  after  growing  up  to  the  size  of  the  original  stone,  again  sub- 
divides into  similar  pairs  ad  infinitum,  A  piece  of  dead  matter  of 
any  sort  does  not  exhibit  any  predilection  for  the  production  of  other 
like  bits  of  matter  out  of  its  own  inert  substance.  But  a  living  plant 
or  animal  does  tend  to  reproduce  its  like,  either  by  actual  fission  of 
its  own  body,  or  by  production  of  smaller  bodies  (call  them  germs  if 
you  will),  which  unite  with  like  germs  produced  by  kindred  organisms, 
to  form  a  new  and  distinct  individual — a  seed  or  egg.  This 
peculiarity  of  living  beings  is  perhaps  at  bottom  the  most  striking 
characteristic  of  all  life  ;  and  it  is  therefore  well  to  ask  ourselves 
definitely  the  essential  question,  "Why  do  plants  and  animals 
reproduce  at  all  ?  " 

Put  in  this  form,  the  problem  is  to  some  extent  a  new  one. 
Already  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  has  asked  and  answered  the  questions, 
*' When  does  gamogenesis  occur?"  and  "Why  does  gamogenesis 
occur?"— in  other  words,  why  does  there  exist  such  a  thing  as  the 
distinction  of  sexes  ?  But  perhaps  nobody  has  ever  yet  definitely 
posited  the  prior  (juestion,  "  Why  does  genesis  itself  in  any  form 
occur?  " — in  other  words,  why  is  there  such  a  thing  as  reproduction 
at  all?  Quite  recently,  however,  a  minute  and  rigorous  critic,  Mr. 
Malcolm  Guthrie,  has  called  upon  evolutionary  biologists  to  begin 
their  exposition  by  dealing  with  this  preliminary  difficulty.  It  may 
seem  to  many  evolutionists  that  such  a  demand  is  a  fair  and 
reasonable  one ;  and  some  attempt  to  answer  the  question  at  issue 
ought  surely  by  this  time  to  be  made.  An  answer,  indeed,  is  all  the 
more  desirable  because  the  matter  is  fundamental  :  upon  the  right 
comprehension  of  the  physical  necessity  or  ^  priori  certitude  of 
genesis  in  its  simplest  form,  hang  all  the  later  and  dependent 
propositions  of  biological  science. 

The  answer  to  be  tentatively  given  here  is  simply  this  :  genesis  is 
a  necessary  result    of  the  physical    and  chemical  properties   of 


I 


Genesis. 

chlorophyll.  Now  chlorophyll,  as  everybody  knows,  and  as  its  name 
proclaims,  is  merely  the  green  colouring  matter  of  leaves  ;  and  it  may 
seem  strange  to  many,  even  among  those  familiar  with  scientific 
modes  of  thought,  to  be  told  that  genesis,  a  feature  common  to 
animal  and  vegetal  life  alike,  is  the  result  of  a  purely  vegetal  principle.' 
£ut  it  will  be  seen  in  the  sequel  that  this  vegetal  principle 
really  lies  at  the  very  foundation  of  all  hfc,  and  that  without  it 
life  in  any  form  would  be  simply  impossible.  It  is  unfortunate  that 
the  majority  of  progressive  scientific  biologists  have  interested  them- 
selves rather  in  zoology  than  in  botany,  and  that  the  fundamental 
importance  of  the  plant  in  the  biological  scheme  has  thus  been  often 
werlooked,  or  at  least  only  grudgingly  and  implicitly  acknowledged. 
It  might  fairly  be  said,  however,  that  the  true  "  physical  basis  of  life  " 
is  not,  strictly  speaking,  protoplasm  in  general  (as  Professor  Huxley 
lias  put  it),  but  is  rather  that  particular  modification  of  protoplasm 
-which  we  know  as  chlorophyll. 

In  order  thoroughly  to  comjirehend  the  nature  of  chlorophyll,  and 
its  relation  to  the  general  phenomena  of  plant  and  animal  life,  let  us 
begin  by  considering  briefly  wherein  organisms  generally  differ  most 
from  the  inorganic  bodies  about  them.  It  has  often  been  said  that 
organic  chemistry  is  the  chemislry  of  the  carbon -compounds  :  it 
would  perhaps  be  truer,  cosmically  speaking,  to  say  that  it  is  the 
chemistry  of  energetic  compounds.  The  mass  of  the  materials  forming 
the  earth's  surface — rocks,  clays,  water,  and  so  forth— are  in  a  state 
of  chemical  stability  :  for  the  most  pari,  their  chemical  affinities  are 
fully  saturated  ;  they  are  combinations  of  elements  in  the  firmest  and 
closest  union  ;  they  possess  little  or  no  potential  energy  ;  to  use  the 
somewhat  crude  but  unavoidable  slang  of  modern  physics,  no  "work" 
can  be  got  out  of  iheni.  In  contradistinction  to  these  inert  and 
generally  motionless  bodies,  organic  beings  have  this  point  in 
common,  that  they  are  all  highly  energetic  :  they  contain  large  quanti- 
ties of  enei^y,  sometimes  poienlial  or  latent,  sometimes  kinetic  or 
active.  Many  of  them,  which  we  call  animals,  may  be  seen  as  visibly 
moving  masses  on  the  earth's  surface ;  and  these  possess  also 
internal  organic  movements,  such  as  circulation,  respiration,  and  so 
forth,  besides  being  storehouses  of  molecular  motion  or  heat  to  a 
marked  degree.  Others,  known  for  the  most  part  as  plants,  do  not 
usually  move  in  the  mass  ;  but  they  likewise  possess  internal  organic 
movements  of  growth  and  circulation,  and  they  sometimes  even 
display  considerable  visible  activity,  as  in  the  sensitive  plant,  or  tn 
'  To  appease  ihe  exacting  scientific  ciilic,  it  niny  be  adiled  llial  chlorophyll 
u  found  ia  a  veiy  lew  imall  anirn&ls. 


( 


I 


548  The  Gmttemaiis  Magazine. 

the  opening  and  Suiting  of  fJowers.    AH  otganisms  slUce,  however, 
can  be  burnt,  and  thus  exhibit  their  possession  of  potential  energy  to 
a  very  high  extent :  for  combustion  really  means  combination  with 
oxygen,  accompanied  by  the  lilieration  of  previously  potential  energy 
in  an  active  fonn  as  heat  and  light.     Almost  all  the  fuels  employeii 
by  man  for  heating  and  lighting  are  of  organic  origin  ;  cither  animal,      ^ 
as  tallow,  whale-oil,  lard  ;  or  vegetal,  as  wood,  coal,  wax,  petroleum.    _ 
If  the  surface  of  the  eanh  were  left  wholly  to  itself,  without  zM 
receiving  light  and  heat  from  the  sun,  it  would  consist  entirely  of  the  — ^ 
stable  chemical  compounds— water  (in  llie  form  of  ice),  stone,  clay,  ^-1 
end  so  forth,     'ihere  would  be  no  life,  no  movement,  no  change,  or-^« 
wind,  or  current  upon  its  face.     Its  chemistry  and  its  physics  wouli 
all,  so  lo  speak,  be   statical     Bat  the  rays  of  the  sun,  falling  on*::* 
these  inert  and  compound  bodies,  set  up  in  them  certain  visible:^* 
and  invisible  movements.    The  sunlight  makes  the  ice  for  the  most:»-s 
part  into  water;  it  causes  the  winds  which  agitate  the  sea;  it  produces^sr' 
the  evaporation  that  results  in  rain,  and  consequently  in  the 
of  brooks  and  rivers.     But  besides  these  larger  and  purely  physicaH- 
elTects,  it  produces  certain  more  intimate  and  chemical  effects,  which*" 
we  know  as  the  phenomena  of  vegetal  and  animal  lift     The  raw  "^ 
material  of  its  operations  consists  of  the  water  on  the  surface  and  the  -^ 
carbonic  acid  (let  us  retain  familiar  names)  in  the  air.     These  are  ■« 
both  tolerably  stable  and  fully  saturated  compounds.     But  the  rays  ol 
the  sun,  falling  upon  them,  in  the  presence  of  the  green  parts 
plants,  dissociate  to  some  extent  the  hydrogen  and  the  carbon  from 
the  oxygen  with  which  they  were  combined,  and  store  them  up  in 
relatively  free  and  energetic  forms.     The   bodies  which  result  from 
these  operations  are  no  longer  stable  and  inert ;  they  have  imbibed 
the  kinetic  energy  of  the  sunlight,  and  have  made  it  potential ;  they 
have  stored  it  up,  so  to  speak,  in  their  own  substance.     Instead  of 
free  working  energy  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  compound  whose  de- 
ments are  locked  up  in  the  closest  embrace  on  the  other,  we  have 
now  two  sets  of  free  elements,  the  hydrogen  or  the  carbon  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  oxygen  on  the  other,  whose  freedom  or  separation 
represents  the  energy  that  was  absorbed  in  the  act  of  dissociation.    A 
piece  of  wood,  a  lump  of  coal,  an  oily  nut  or  seed,  each  consists  in 
the  main  of  a  visible  mass  of  such  hydro -carbons,  possessing  poten* 
tial  energy  in  virtue  of  their  separation  from   the   oxygen    around 
them,  and  ready  to  yield  it  up  again  in  the  kinetic  form,  as  heat  and 
light,  whenever  we  induce  their  reunion  with  oxygen  by  simply  apply- 
ing a  match  or  a  piece  of  tinder. 

J'amiliar  as  these  Sacis  ?,o\iTid  to  U\e  scientific   ear,  it  is  yet 


Genesis. 

necessary  to  recapitulate  them  here  from  this  special  point  of  view,  in 
order  lo  place  the  reader  at  the  requisite  standpoint  for  understand- 
ing the  theory  of  genesis  about  to  be  propounded.  Regarded  in  this 
light,  then,  a  plant  is  essentially  an  accumulator  and  storer  of  energy; 
that  is  to  say,  a  plant  which  is  functionally  a  plant  is  such  ;  for  we 
shall  see  hereafter  that  some  few  plants  are,  from  the  practical  or 
physical  point  of  view,  functioiially  animals.  The  business  of  the 
plant  in  the  cosmical  economy  is  to  receive  the  rays  of  the  sun  in  its 
green  portions ;  to  let  them  dissolve  for  it  the  union  subsisting  be- 
tween oxygen  and  carbon  in  the  carbonic  acid  of  the  air  ;  lo  turn 
loose  the  liberated  oxygen  into  the  atmosphere;  and  to  store  up  the 
free  carbon  and  hydrogen  in  relatively  loose  unions  as  hydro-carbons 
(or  rather  carbo-hydrates}  in  its  own  tissues.  These  hydro-carbons 
are  then  visible  masses  of  matter  possessing  potential  energy,  which 
^ley  may  yield  up  in  performing  other  functions  of  the  plant  itself; 
feeding  an  animal ;  or  as  being  burnt  as  fuel  in  a  human  stove, 
Jn  any  case,  they  will  combine  at  last  with  the  oxygen  they  once 
east  off,  and  in  so  doing  will  yield  up  just  as'  much  kinetic  energy  as 
■they  absorbed  from  the  sunlight  in  their  first  production. 

The  function  of  an  animal,  on  the  other  hand  (as  well  as  of  quasi- 
animal  plants  like  the  fungi),  is  exactly  the  reverse.  The  animal  is 
an  expender,  not  an  accumulator,  of  energy.  It  takes  the  potentially 
lergetic  materials  laid  by  in  the  tissues  of  the  plant,  either  directly 
herbivore,  or  indirectly,  if  it  is  a  carnivore  devouring  herbi- 
res ;  and  it  recombines  these  materials  with  oxygen  in  its  own 
ly,  thereby  obtaining  warmth  and  motion.  It  is,  if  we  may  be 
■taphorical,  a  sort  of  natural  steam-engine,  slowly  burning  up  vege- 
table products  within  its  living  furnace,  and  getting  out  of  them  the 
kinetic  energy  which  it  expends  in  the  movements  of  its  parts  or  of 
its  limbs.  It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  plants  are  prior  to  animals  in  the 
order  of  nature.  Given  a  world  of  solid  rock,  water,  and  carbonic 
acid,  beaten  upon  by  solar  rays,  and  an  animal  if  placed  there  would 
die  out ;  put  a  plant  there,  and  it  would  live  and  propagate.  The 
world  must  be  peopled  with  plants  before  animals  can  begin  to 
exist.  And  from  this  we  can  readily  see  the  primordial  importance  of 
chlorophyll. 

For  without  chlorophyll  there  would  be  no  life.  The  solar  rays, 
falling  upon  carbonic  acid  and  water  alone,  do  not  set  up  any 
chemical  action  at  all  in  them.  On  the  other  hand,  falling  upon 
these  bodies   in    the   presence   of  chlorophyll,   they  .set  up    the 

Essociations  which  result  in  the  production  ofmore  relatively 
carbons,  which  are  the  raw  materials  of  all  other  orta.w.\c 


I 


550  The  Gentlemati s  Magazine. 

compounds.  Chlorophyll,  it  is  true,  is  not  in  itself  a  simple  hydro- 
carbon ;  it  is  a  protoplasmic  body  of  highly  complex  structure,  whose 
chemistry,  even  as  now  imperfectly  understood,  is  too  complicated  to 
be  gone  into  here.  But  it  differs  from  all  other  organic  bodies  in 
this,  that  it,  and  it  alone,  can,  under  the  influence  of  sunlight,  pro- 
duce new  organisable  matter.  It  is  a  physical  property  of  chloro- 
phyll, when  sunlight  falls  upon  it,  that  it  dissociates  carbon  from 
oxygen,  and  builds  it  up  with  the  hydrogen  of  water  into  hydro- 
carbons. These  hydro-carbons  can  again  be  employed  to  manu- 
facture fresh  chlorophyll  and  other  protoplasmic  bodies,  by  the 
addition  of  nitrogen  and  some  other  elements.  We  may  therefore 
say  that  chlorophyll  possesses  the  unique  power,  under  the  influence 
of  sunlight,  of  laying  by  fresh  material  which  is  capable  of  being 
transformed  into  itself.  In  other  words,  it  assimilates.  This  power 
makes  it  really  the  fundamental  basis  of  all  life,  and  gives  it  its 
essential  importance  in  the  biological  theory  of  genesis. 

For,  given  a  stone  or  a  drop  of  water,  that  stone  or  that  drop 
does  not  tend  to  make  new  stones  and  new  drops  develop  around  it 
True,  it  may  become  the  nucleus  for  crystallisation  in  the  one  case, 
or  the  centre  of  condensation  in  the  other,  as  actually  happens  with 
growing  crystals  or  with  gathering  clouds  ;  but  these  instances  are  not 
really  analogous,  as  they  seem  fallaciously  to  be,  to  that  of  the  chloro- 
phyll grain.  For  in  the  one  set  of  phenomena,  the  crystal  and  the 
water  really  pre-exist  as  such  in  the  surrounding  medium  ;  they  are 
only  deposited  anew  in  a  fresh  situation  ;  but  in  the  other  set  of 
phenomena,  the  new  material  exists  at  first  as  carbonic  add  and 
water;  its  oxygen  is  rejected;  its  carbon  and  hydrogen  are  sepa- 
rated ;  and  it  is  then  worked  up  with  other  elements  from  elsewhere 
into  the  form  of  more  protoplasm,  which  in  the  sunlight  once  more 
develops  more  chlorophyll.  In  short,  it  is  the  peculiar  property  of 
chlorophyll,  under  sunlight,  ultimately  to  develop  more  of  itself. 
And  it  develops  more  of  itself  essentially  by  absorbing  the  kinetic 
energy  of  the  sunlight  and  rendering  it  potential  in  the  resulting 
chemical  bodies. 

Here,  then,  we  have  the  property  which  forms  the  basis  or  radical 
idea  of  genesis  ;  here  we  have  a  body  which  does  not  remain  sta- 
tionary in  quantity,  but  which  increases  by  assimilating  fresh  material 
to  itself  from  without,  (iiven  this  physical  property,  and  the  rudest 
type  of  genesis  by  fission  is  already  practically  attained.  For  you 
start,  to  put  it  roughly,  with  a  drop  of  protoplasm  contahiing  chloro- 
phyll-bodies. These  chlorophyll-bodies,  under  the  influence  of  sun- 
lifij^^oduce  hydro-carbons,  which  again  are  worked  up  within  the 


'  tirt'wufO'.*- 


ip  into  more  protoplasm  and  more  chlorophyll-bodies.    When  the 
ip  is  twice  as  big  as  it  was  originally  its  cohesion  is  overcome,  and 
separates  into  two  drops.    Each  such  drop  then  goes  on  assimilating 
tore  material,  and  again  subdividing  into  two  more  drops.     And  so 
■you  have  set  up  a  continuous  dichotomous  type  of  genesis  by  fission, 
-which  is  actually  realised  almost  in  this  form  among  the  very  lowest 
order  of  plants  (Tliallophytes),  such  as  the  Chroococcacex,  whose 
mode  of  reproduction  will  be  found  fully  described  in  any  work  ou 
ibydological  botany-    Of  course,  this  rough  sketch  is  strictly  dia- 
imalic  in  character  ;  it  omits  all  details  and  fixes  itself  only  on 
le  central  facts  of  the  process  ;  and  it  assumes  that  fission  will  take 
place  in  the  mass  when  it  attains  a  certain  size ;  but  it  will  serve  at  least 
show  that  genesis  in  its  simplest  and  most  fundamental  form  con- 
mysteries  or  hyper-physical  element — that  it  is  strictly  analo- 
gous to  all  other  ordinary  physical  phenomena  elsewhere.     The  only 
new  factor  really  imported  into  the  complex  chemistry  of  life,  in  this 
its  moat  primitive  form,  is  the  factor  of  absorbed  potential  energy  (which, 
of  course,  is  common  enough  in  many  artificial  chemical  products). 

Where  the  first  grain  of  chlorophyll  came  from  we  do  not  know. 
'■How  it  was  originally  produced  we  cannot  tell.  Perhaps  some  com- 
tiination  of  circumstances  in  the  crust  of  a  cooling  planet,  now  unat- 
tainable, may  somehow  have  given  it  birth.  Perhaps,  if  we  wish  to 
call  in  tlie  supernatural  (and  we  have  a  good  opportunity  for  doing 
fio,  here  on  the  unknown  borderland),  it  may  have  been  specially  en- 
'cd  with  its  existing  properties  by  the  fiat  of  a  Creator ;  though,  to 
sure,  the  fiat  does  not  seem  one  whit  more  necessary  or  less  neccs- 
for  those  particular  properties  than  for  all  the  other  properties  of 
matter  in  general  Perhaps,  and  for  aught  we  know  to  the  contrary  this 
is  as  good  a  guess  as  tlie  others,  it  may  have  drojjped  down  upon  us,  as 
Sir  William  Thomson  suggests,  from  a  prior  world  ;  Ihougli  how  it 
got  there  would  be  just  an  equal  mystery,  itself  demanding  a  similar 
solution.  Perhaps  even,  it  may  go  on  being  spontaneously  produced 
by  the  action  of  sunlight  on  inorganic  matter  at  the  present  day.  But, 
however  this  may  be — and  the  question  is  really  no  more  important  tlian 
the  question  as  to  the  origin  of  any  other  chemical  compound  what- 
soever—we do  know  now  that  the  real  original  living  thing  must  have 
been  a  mass  of  protoplasm  containing  chlorophyll.  It  could  not 
have  been  an  animal,  for  an  animal  means  a  destroyer  or  user-up  of 
materials  already  produced  by  the  chlorophyll  of  plants.  It  could 
not  have  been  a  fungus  of  any  sort,  or  a  saprophyte,  for  those  ari; 
phmts  indeed  in  structural  relationship,  but  essentially  animals  in 
tual  function;  their  life,  hkc  the  life  of  the  animal,  consists  entirely 


—  ■«^h 

hdowt 

^Riesi 

"  Barv 


< 


coridbeid 


':  Magaxint. 

c^Ay  stored  up  by  other  plants, 
.7:iest  !i%*ing  creature  was  a  Uon, 
-'  ivonjus  animals,  which  a^in 
:=.      All  animals  and  all  fuDgior 
f  %-egetal  life,  and  especially  of 
'.iid  up  the  energetic  materials 
■JA   and   water  will  not  do  by 
:s.     Sunlight  Calling  upon  these 
ntnt  merely.      But  these  three, 
.  e  iLe  raw  material  of  life ;  and 
.  Totoplasmic  bodies  within  itt 
.  fital  flaw  of  all  such  invesliga- 
as  Dr.  Basttan's.     Even  if  it 
■  dui  m-mg  orpmisros  sprang  up  spontaneously  at  the 
drfOf.tiuBS  cftmaip  or  tn  beef-tea  (which  has  nevK 
bos  abowB^  «e  dioald  be  bo  nonr  the  be^nniugs  of  life  than  eva- 
FaKAeaqfHBanKsadtofaesopntduced  are  all   such  as  Bacletia, 
jaaS  lodWc  <Jifmici  of  the  fincoiis  sort,  containing  no  chlorophyll, 
jadfinBC^*  Ac  tara^-Mxqi  ort^ beef-tea  exactly  asweda  Ifini 
s  of  Rad^-soade  beef -tea  a  number  of  Bacteria 
aqitly  begin  to  swim  about  in  it,  r- 
prodooe  dicir  kind  ia  cnonmos  qoantides,  eat  it  all  up,  and  then  die 
o«t  fn  ever.     Bat  «luti  we  wsM  is  an  organism  which,  set  down  in  a 
«aU  aMaamaa%  no  beeLto,  bat  filled  in  its  stead  with  water  and 
cmbonc  acid,  «ill  idcxosc  utd  multiply  and   replenish  the  earth. 
And  ao  npoum  ifaat  ve  know  of  could  do  this,  unless  it  contained 
cMorophyfl;  ■beieaai,  Mil  coQt^ned  chlorophyll,  it  roust,  by  virtue  of 
its  phyncal  properties,  continue  to  do  so  as  long  as  sunlight,  water, 
and  aubtxuc  acid  (widi  a  Utile  nitrc^en,  &c.)  were  duly  supplied 
to  iL 

Waiving  the  question,  then,  as  to  how  the  earliest  grain  of  chl<vo> 
phyll  began  to  be,  we  see  that  if  one  such  chlorophyll  gnun  be  cmce 
granted,  with  its  physical  properties  such  as  they  are  known  to  be, 
genesis  in  its  most  primitive  form  follows  as  a  matter  of  course.  Now, 
the  very  simplest  tj-pe  of  Thallophytes  are  known  as  the  Prolophytes 
(it  is  unfortunate  that  our  inquiry  leads  us  mostly  into  the  very  dr^ 
of  vegetal  life,  whose  mere  names  nobody  kno«-s  ;  but  it  cannot  be 
helped),  and  these  Protophytes,  or  some  of  them,  exhibit  to  us  a 
system  of  genesis  almost  in  this  ideally  simple  form.  In  the  very 
earliest  of  these  liny  organisms,  such  as  some  Chroococcaccjc. 
Oscillatorieae,  and  others  each  plant  consisls  of  a  single  cell,  that  i. 
'*>  say,  of  a  small  mass  oi  vwWV^o^^^-'''^'"^'"'"^  chlorophyll -bodies. 


Gtuests. 

and  surrounded  by  a  more  or  less  jelly-like  walL  This  wall  is 
"secreted"  by  the  protoplasm  from  its  own  substance;  in  other  words, 
each  cell  is  first  produced  as  a  mass  of  protoplasm  only,  and  then 
proceeds  to  cover  itself  with  an  outside  film,  much  as  porridge  does 
in  a  basin  as  it  grows  cold.  Not,  of  course,  that  the  one  action  is 
exactly  equivalent  to  the  other;  but  both  are  presumably  due  alike 
to  simply  physical  causes.  At  :;  certain  point  of  growth,  when  the  cell 
or  planthas  stored  upagiven  quantity  of  material  like  itself,  under  the 
influence  of  sunlight,  it  divides  in  two,  each  part  being  naturally 
exactly  similar.  The  two  halves  of  the  divided  mother-cell  next 
increase  until  they  attain  its  size,  and  then  they  divide  again.  And 
so  on  aii  infinitum.  Here  it  is  clear  that  genesis  really  consists  in 
ihe  production  by  one  cell  of  two  cells  exactly  like  itself;  and  the 
principle  of  heredity  is  thus  seen  in  its  origin  to  be  simply  identity 
of  substance  and  structure. 

If  the  new  cells  float  freely  about  in  their  medium,  each  one  may 
be  regarded  as  a  separate  organism  ;  but  if  they  cling  together  in 
rows  like  beads  in  a  necklace,  they  form  the  first  sort  of  compound 
organism,  such  as  some  waving  hair-like  algas ;  and  if  they  cling 
tc^ether  on  all  sides,  they  form  a  primitive  leaf  or  frond. 

Many  plants  which  rise  higher  in  the  scale  than  these,  neverthe- 
less often  recur  to  the  same  primitive  form  of  genesis  by  simple 
fission  of  a  single  cell.  For  example,  the  well-known  red  snow  plant 
is  now  considered  to  be,  most  probably,  a  mere  abortive  stage  in  the 
development  of  some  higher  alga  ;  but  it  very  well  illustrates  the 
nature  of  this  primitive  genetic  type.  A  single  small  mass  of 
protoplasm,  containing  chlorophyll- bodies,  falls  on  the  surface  of 
newly  fallen  snow,  under  the  sunlight.  The  bit  of  protoplasm  is 
itself,  in  all  probability,  derived  from  a  higher  plant,  with  a  different 
mode  of  reproduction  ;  but  here  it  has  none  of  the  favourable 
conditions  for  its  own  normal  development,  while  it  has  all  those 
required  for  this  simplest  plane  of  vegetal  life.  It  has  water, 
carbonic  acid,  sunlight.  Accordingly,  it  begins  at  once  to  integrate 
fresh  matter  from  without  under  the  solar  influence  ;  and  as  it  does 
50,  it  breaks  up  again  and  again  into  small  bodies,  each  of  which 
in  turn  becomes  the  mother  of  others,  until  the  whole  surface  of  the 
snow  is  covered  with  a  perfect  sheet  of  tiny  red  plantiets. 

We  thus  see  the  A  priori  necessity  for  the  existence  of  reproduction 
in  ail  bodies  containing  chlorophyll.  But  we  do  not  yet  see  the 
necessity  for  reproduction  in  bodies  which  do  not  contain  it.  In 
order  to  do  so,  we  must  have  recourse  to  the  principle  of  natural 
selection, 

VOL.  tCLVIlJ,      ,vo.  1S54.  (^  "^  I 


cf 4  7^  G^MlUaiOMS  Magazine. 


:y.  ^LlS  71 — iTTTiV  5:Zc«^   of  necessity  from  the  general 

ic    ±jccr:cirrlL     J:r.  givea  chlorophyll,  and  therefore 

^^rsL  TT.ii  i^t— i-w  :z.  J3  tr^Tucg  fonc  TznadoQ  and  survival  of  the 

■w*i»^  jr*   3is£=s2rr   '■irserarrne^       Unless  ve  suppose  all  the 

cniorxitv*!  — ni.i:T7^i£  -rrir^rrs  lo  be  drcnmstanced  exactly  alike 

vaici  5  pa^is^T  xzc*::gLb->  •  ve  must  allow  that  greater  or  less 

'''ef",  liijoogh  the  action  of  their  unlike 


^Brnumxisxc  trLjacLri  is  Lircess  viih  stones  or  other  inorganic 
sciais.  Z;iz  sacs  cr:.utci:jl  teztds  10  build  up  more  chlorophyll 
lic£  jsein.  »mf  :l:  sclx  ::=  :=zz  zarm  bodies^  it  must  also  hs^ipen  that 
s;srni7  -m*~'T-.t-.--  »fks  viH  also  tend  to  split  up  into 
err  age.-  \  jr?ii  rccjtcs — 31  ocher  vcrds,  to  reproduce  their  like. 
y.ncT  :t  nr-rnrtd  :nj3  1::  bs  simplest  form  thus  amounts  to  no 
x^tTTf    zi  c:c>'i:::>cn  betreen  the   two   parts  of  a 


c^iiei   lad   i^^^rtc  vbiCe.      Azain,  those  masses  of  chlorophyll 

zzrv^-^xzz^L  :br  receiTiisg  and  assimilating  sunlight 
=:e  soiC  while  those  which  are  worst  conditioned 
IIS  ±k£  J£L£  or  zxfi  £1  alL  Every  variation  which  tends 
«.*«-fn*^d-y^  to  :^  environment  will  thus  be  fnvoured, 
*e?ecnarT :  ererv  adverse  variation  will  be  weeded 
TogrrUe  here  »  staie  this  connexion  very  briefly : 
tar  whoever  takes  tie  rrxible  to  work  it  out  in  his  own  mind 
wal  essLT  see  r^a:  aZ  Mr.  Darwin's  theory  of  natural  sekc- 
tam  £cws  agcfyarlv  zx-n  the  fundamental  attributes  of  chloro- 
^^Z.  nsu  tbe  exifcesce  oc  variety  or  diversity  in  the  inorganic 


This  V*^  iO«  i:  becomes  clear  that  higher  developments  of 
cty  will  seen  ^e  rendered  possible:  For  if  any  chlorophyll 
c*^i-^— ^5  ocgar.i5gr.  is  so  situated  that  it  happens  to  split  up,  say, 
iK-o  s«^nenl  ssjlII  srcres  or  eggs,  instead  of  into  two  similar  bodies, 
and  if  tbese  s^res  cr  e^:^  happen  to  show  any  slight  bettemess  of 
adapCJLDOci  in  any  wiy,  it  is  obvious  that  they  will  reproduce  nu)re 
often  ai^  mone  securely  than  other  organisms,  or,  to  use  the  £uniliar 
plinse.  they  will  survive  in  the  struggle  for  existence.  As  a  matter 
cf  act,  we  know  that  we  can  trace  many  such  higher  developments. 
Starting  from  organisms  which  merely  split  up  into  two,  we  go  on  to 
ocpinisms  in  which  a  single  mother-cell  divides  into  several  cells,  and 
to  others  in  mhich  the  cells  so  produced  possess  certain  de6nite 
oigans;  enablirxg  them  the  more  easily  to  fix  themselves  in  suitable 
situations.  In  £sict,  among  the  bodies  containing  chlorophyll,  we 
can  pass  upward  from  the  very  simplest  types,  in  which  reproduction 
is  pertomed  by  mere  division,  to  those  very  developed  types  in 


Genesis.  555 

which  reproduction  takes  place  by  means  of  a  highly  complex  seed, 
such  as  that  of  a  pea  or  a  hazel-nut. 

Most  of  these  gradations  can  be  sufficiently  accounted  for  by  the 
principle  of  natural  selection  alone — ^that  is  to  say  by  the  reproduction 
of  the  most  adapted  variations  :  but  there  is  one  other  principle,  or 
rather  one  variety  of  this  principle,  which  must  be  briefly  touched  upon 
here,  in  order  to  render  comprehensible  its  application  to  the  case  of  the 
more  familiar  animals.  This  is  the  origin  of  sex — z.  question  to  which 
I  hope  hereafter  to  recur  at  greater  detail  in  this  Magazine,  but  which 
I  cannot  wholly  pass  over  here,  though  it  can  only  now  be  treated  in 
the  briefest  manner.  It  is  certain  that  all  organisms  and  all  cells 
tend,  after  a  longer  or  shorter  period,  to  lose  their  plastic  or 
reproductive  power.  They  seem  to  settle  down  into  a  less  active 
and  more  quiescent  state,  after  which  they  do  not  so  readily  undergo 
any  change  or  produce  any  fresh  unita  But  some  organic  cells, 
when  they  have  reached  this  state,  pass  through  a  process  known  as 
rejuvenescence  which  enables  them  to  begin  over  again  their  cycle  of 
existence.  For  example,  in  certain  algae,  reproduction  takes  place  in 
the  following  manner  :  After  the  plant  has  produced  a  number  of 
cells,  arranged  one  after  another  in  long  hair-like  rows,  its  growing 
power  or  vigour  seems  to  be  used  up,  and  it  reaches  a  period  of 
considerable  quiescence.  Then,  in  some  of  these  cells,  the  pro- 
toplasm and  chlorophyll-bodies  at  last  contract,  and  protrude  through 
an  opening  in  the  cell-wall.  Next,  they  pass  the  opening  and  quit 
the  cell  altogether,  forming  what  is  known  as  a  swarm-cell,  without 
any  cell-wall,  which  floats  freely  in  the  water.  After  a  short  time, 
this  swarm-cell  fixes  itself  at  rest,  what  was  before  its  side  now 
becoming  its  root  (to  use  a  popular  term) ;  and  it  then  begins  to 
grow  vigorously  into  a  fresh  plant,  first  secreting  a  fresh  cell-wall, 
and  then  producing  new  cells  under  the  influence  of  sunlight  acting 
on  its  chlorophyll  In  this  case,  we  have  a  very  advanced  type  of 
asexual  reproduction,  almost  foreshadowing  sexuality:  for  here  the 
change  of  attitude,  and  the  casting  ofi*  of  the  slough  or  cell-wall, 
seems  to  give  the  protoplasm  and  chlorophyll  new  life,  by  permitting 
them  to  assume  a  plasticity  which  they  had  temporarily  lost  in  the  act 
of  definite  organisation. 

True  sexuality  essentially  differs  from  this  in  one  fact :  the 
organism  has  here  acquired  so  fixed  and  statical  a  habit  that 
plasticity  can  only  be  restored  (as  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  points  out) 
by  interaction  with  another  organism.  For  example,  certain  algae 
reproduce  by  what  is  known  as  conjugation :  that  is  to  say,  when  the 
long  hair-like  filaments  which  form  the  plant  have  reached  their 

QQ2 


556  TJu  GeniUnuuis  Magazine. 

period  of  matmitT,  thqr  bappen  to  approach  one  another  in  the 
water,  and  a  nnion  takes  i^ace  by  the  outgrowth  of  a  passage 
bcigeen  tvx>  of  their  opposite  odls.  The  protoplasm  and  chlorophyll 
of  one  odl  coDect,  and  pass  orer  through  the  passage  thus  formed  in 
the  ocH-vaH  into  the  other.  Then  a  sort  of  stir  or  ferment  is  set  up 
br  this  infosion  of  fre^  blood,  and  the  previously  quiescent  cell- 
coDtents  break  up  into  a  number  of  small  spores,  from  each  of  which 
a  new  iodiridual  is  produced. 

Soch  a  case  shows  us  sexuality  in  its  very  simplest  mode,  for  here 
the  two  ceDs  which  unite  to  form  the  spcHes  do  not  visibly  differ  from 
ooe  another — there  is  no  differentiation  of  reproductive  cells  into 
male  and  female.  In  certain  higher  algae,  however,  we  get  such  a 
bisexual  differentiation.  Smaller  cells  known  as  antheridia  inject 
their  contents  into  larger  cells  known  as  oogonia,  and  set  up  in  them 
die  reproductive  process.  The  pollen-grains  and  ovules  of  flowering 
plants  show  us  the  differentiation  in  its  highest  vegetal  fomL  Infinite 
as  are  the  gradations  by  which  we  reach  these  upper  levels  of  plant 
life,  it  will  yet  be  obvious  to  anyone  familiar  with  evolutionary 
modes  of  thought,  that  they  can  all  be  logically  deduced  from  the 
known  primitiTe  properties  of  chlorophyll,  plus  natural  selection 
acting  upon  varieties  produced  by  differences  of  envirozmient 

But  how  are  we  to  account  for  genesis  and  heredity  in  anim^liy^ 
where  chlorophyll  is  not  present  ?    To  answer  this  final  question,  we 
must  consider  in  what  manner  the  first  animal  probably  came  to 
esdst     In  many  cases,  the  reproductive  spores  cast  off  by  plants 
possess  organs  of   motion.     They  swim  about  freely  in  water  by 
means  of  little  vibratile  hairs,  which  they  have,  of  course,  acquired 
by  the  natural  selection  of  favourable  variations.     In  some  instances 
such  spores  come  to  rest  finally,  and  grow  out,  by  multiplication  of 
cells,  into  fixed  and  sessile  plants  ;  in  other  instances,  they  continue 
motile  throughout  their  whole  existence,  but  show  their  essentially 
vegetal  nature  by  their  possession  of  active  chlorophyll.     In  their 
young  state,  however,  these  plants  do  not  fundamentally  differ  fi:om 
animals.    They  possess  a  certain  fixed  store  of  potential  energy, 
which  they  use  up  in  the  movements  of  their  vibratile  hairs  ;  and  so 
long  as  they  continue  in  this  state  they  inhale  oxygen  from  the  water, 
give  out  carbonic  acid,  and  are  in  fact  functionally  animals.     But 
sooner  or  later  they  take  to  a  truly  vegetal  life,  by  assimilating  hydro- 
carbons from  the  surrounding  medium,  under  the  influence  of  sun- 
light ;   and  so  doing,  they  prove  their  right  to  be  considered  as 
genuine  plants. 

Now,  suppose  some  such  locomotive  spores,  freely  floating  about 


in  the  water,  happen  by  some  chance  (such  as  being  cast  in  a  dark 
place)  not  to  use  their  chlorophyll  or  to  develop  fresh  chlorophyll, 
what  will  occur?  Under  certain  circumstances,  under  most  circum- 
stances indeed,  they  will  simply  die.  But  if  one  of  them  happens  to 
come  into  contact  with  another,  the  two  might  conceivably  coalesce. 
This  coalescence  would  increase  the  total  quantity  of  energy-yielding 
material  possessed  by  the  joint  body,  and  the  length  of  time  for 
which  it  could  go  on  moving  without  the  necessity  for  fresh  sunlight 
would  be  correspondingly  increased.  If,  again,  it  came  into  contact 
with  still  other  similar  germs,  or  with  germs  of  a  different  description, 
the  movement  might  continue  inde5nitely.  We  have  only  to  suppose 
this  coalescence  rendered  habitual,  and  we  have  at  once  the  simplest 
type  of  animal. 

^At  first,  the  coalescence  thus  postulated  might  almost  be  mutual : 
just  as  in  the  earliest  form  of  reproduction  by  spUtting,  it  is  impossible 
^O  say  which  is  parent  and  which  is  offspring,  because  both  are  halves 
of  a  similar  whole,  so  in  the  earliest  form  of  feeding  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  say  which  is  devourer  and  which  devoured,  because 
both  combine  to  form  a  single  whole.  In  time,  however,  variation 
aided  by  natural  selection  produces  distinct  types,  of  which  some 
clearly  feed  upon  others.  In  the  simplest  forms,  the  feeding  takes 
the  shape  of  a  mere  enveloping  of  the  food-morsel  by  the  protoplasm 
1  of  the  devourer ;  digestion  and  assimilation  are  carried  on  by  all 
I  parts  of  the  homogeneous  jelly-like  primitive  animal.  ^Vith  higher 
P'ammals,  however,  under  stress  of  natural  selection,  there  arises  a 
differentiation  of  parts  :  there  are  integuments,  and  these  integuments 
assume  the  character  of  outer  and  inner ;  there  is  a  digestive  sac  or 
cavity,  there  is  a  mouth,  there  is  a  vert,  there  are  subsidiary  organs 
of  secretion,  assimilation,  and  circulation,  there  is  a  complex  loco- 
motive apparatus.  But  in  every  case  all  the  energy  expended  by  the 
animal  comes  directly  or  indirectly  from  the  starches  and  other  fuels 
r  food-stuffs  laid  up  beforehand  by  the  chlorophyll  of  the  plant 
That  such  is  actually  the  origin  of  animal  organisms,  we  do  not  of 
I  course  know  with  certainty.  But  that  they  may  most  probably  have 
'  arisen  in  some  such  way  is  rendered  highly  credible  by  the  analogous 
case  of  fungi.  It  is  now  certain  that  fungi  are  not  a  separate  class  of 
plants,  but  that  they  are  members  of  very  distinct  classes  and  families, 
resembling  one  another  only  in  their  quasi-animal  mode  of  life.  In 
feet  there  is  no  group  of  the  lowest  order  of  plants — the  Thallophytes 
—among  which  fungi  do  not  occur.  Now,  these  fungi  are  really 
plants  which  have  lost  the  habit  of  producing  chlorophyll,  and  have 
L  acquired  instead  the  habit  of  assimilating  and  using  up  energetic 


I' 


\ 


558  The  GentUmatis  Magazine. 

materials  laid  up  by  other  (chlorophyll-containing)  plants.  It  is  obvious 
that  life  may  be  carried  on  by  such  means,  and  however  life  may  be 
carried  on«  something  is  sure  to  carry  it  on,  because  variation  is  sure 
to  hit  sooner  or  later  in  its  blind  groping  upon  some  accident  which 
tells  in  that  (as  in  every)  direction.  The  occurrence  of  fimgi  in  every 
group  of  ThaUophytes  dearly  shows  that  the  habit  of  living  by  expend- 
ing energy  acquired  elsewhere,  instead  of  by  accumulating  energy  at 
first  hand,  has  been  assumed  by  certain  plant  germs,  not  once  cxily, 
but  many  thousand  times  over.  Parasitism  is  a  trick  that  occun 
again  and  again  in  the  history  of  evolution.  Moreover,  what  has  thus 
happened  oAen  to  fungi  may  have  happened  often  to  the  germs  or 
spores  which  developed  ultimately  into  animals  as  well ;  for  there  is 
really  no  valid  line  to  be  drawn  between  a  floating  fungus  and  an 
animal.  A  mushroom,  indeed,  and  most  moulds,  are  immediately 
judgeil  to  be  vegetal  by  their  fixed  and  rooted  position  (though  many 
animals  are  equally  rooted) ;  but  the  distinction  between  such  small 
locomotive  or  floating  fungi  as  Bacterium,  Vibrio,  or  yeast,  and  the 
simpler  animals  is  a  very  artificial  one. 

Why,  then,  does  genesis  occur  in  such  animal  or  quasi-animal 
forms  ?  Take  a  yeast  cell,  placed  in  a  proper  solution — ^that  is  to 
say  in  a  solution  full  of  energy-yielding  materials  laid  up  directly  or 
indirectly  by  true  green  plants — and  the  answer  is  obvious.  The  cell 
of  which  the  very  simple  organism  is  composed  drinks  in  organisable 
material  from  the  surrounding  liquid.  As  it  does  so,  it  begins  to  bud 
out  by  a  small  protuberance,  which  increases  rapidly  to  the  size  of 
the  mother-cell  The  ruurow  point  of  union  then  gives  way,  and 
instead  of  one  we  have  t^'o  cells.  Each  of  these,  once  more,  fcnthwith 
rep>eats  the  process  until  the  whole  solution  is  one  mass  of  yeast  dells 
As  each  is  necessarily  precisely  similar  m  constitution  to  its  prede- 
cessors, they  must  all  resemble  their  common  ancestor,  the  first  yeast 
cell,  except  in  so  far  as  they  may  happen  to  be  modified  by  special 
circumstances.  The  cells  presumably  split  up  because  they  have 
grown  by  feeding  beyond  the  size  at  which  stability  is  possible  for 
them.  In  short,  the  root  principle  of  heredity  is  given  by  the  fiict 
that  reproduction  in  its  essence  is  division  of  a  single  body  into  two 
equal  and  similar  halves  whenever  it  reaches  a  certain  size«  The 
offspring  resembles  the  parent,  because  the  offspring  is  a  bit  of  the 
parent,  broken  off  from  it  to  lead  a  separate  life.  Where  genesis 
becomes  sexual,  the  ofifspriiig  resembles  both  parents,  because  it  is  a 
mixture  of  parts  derived  from  two  organisms,  and  necessarily  develop- 
ing afterwards  as  they  developed. 

Higher  animals,  starting  with  this  conmion  self-dividing  habit  of 


Genesis.  559 

all  protoplasm,  have  gone  on  developing  under  stress  of  natural 
selection,  just  as  higher  plants  have  done.  They  have  hit  out  (inde- 
pendently, it  would  seem)  the  device  of  sexual  reproduction ;  they 
have  acquired  advanced  organs  of  locomotion,  and  they  have  grown 
into  a  vast  variety  of  specialised  forms.  But  to  the  last,  the  essence 
of  reproduction  remains  in  them  the  same  as  in  the  yeast  cell,  and 
differs  insomuch  from  that  of  the  true  green  plants.  Denuded  of 
accessories,  the  two  types  are  these :  plants  accumulate  material  for 
fresh  protoplasm  by  means  of  their  chlorophyll,  under  the  influence  of 
sunlight;  and  this  manufactured  protoplasm  becomes  the  germ  of 
new  plant  organisms.  Animals  accumulate  material  for  fresh  proto- 
plasm by  integrating  into  themselves  the  stores  laid  up  by  plants,  and 
this  stolen  protoplasm  becomes  the  germ  of  new  animal  organisms. 
Variation  under  the  influence  of  the  environment  (in  accordance 
with  what  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  calls  "the  instability  of  the 
homogeneous  ")  aided  by  natural  selection,  does  all  the  rest 

In  this  necessarily  brief  sketch  I  have  intentionally  confined 
myself  to  what  is  most  fundamental  and  essential  in  the  nature  of 
genesis,  omitting  all  details  of  mere  secondary  importance.  Especially 
have  I  touched  very  lightly  on  those  later  stages  in  the  process  of 
reproductive  evolution  whose  philosophy  has  already  been  fully  worked 
out  by  Mr.  Darwin  and  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer.  My  object  has  been 
simply  to  answer  the  question,  "  Why  should  there  be  such  a  thing  as 
reproduction  in  plants  and  animals  at  all?" — not  to  answer  the 
question,  "  Why  should  it  assume  such  and  such  forms  in  such  and 
such  particular  definite  instances?"  I  have  tried  to  fill  up  what 
seems  to  me  a  lacuna  in  the  evolutionary  system,  and  to  show  that  if 
once  we  recognise  the  physical  property  of  chlorophyll  whereby  it 
lays  up  materials  for  its  own  renewal  under  the  influence  of  solar 
energy,  all  the  rest  follows  with  deductive  certainty  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Given  a  grain  of  chlorophyll  in  a  planet  containing  water 
and  carbon  dioxide,  and  supplied  with  radiant  energy,  and  a  world  of 
plants  and  animals  is  a  necessary  result.  The  chlorophyll  so  circum- 
stanced must  of  its  own  nature  be  fruitful,  and  multiply,  and  replenish 
the  earth.  Differentiations  must  needs  arise  between  its  parts  from 
time  to  time  under  stress  of  divergent  circumstances.  Natural 
selection  must  weed  out  the  worse  of  these,  and  spare  the  better. 
And  amongst  the  better  must  almost  certainly  be  some  which  have 
acquired  the  fungoid  habit,  out  of  which  the  animal  world  is  a  natural 
evolutionary  product. 

GRANT  ALLEN. 


560  Tlu  GentlemafC$  Magazine. 


PETIT'SENISrS  ''PENSEESr 


JEAN  ANTOINE  PETIT,  or— as  he  signed  himself,  adopth^kif 
mother's  name  as  an  addition — ^John  Petit-Senn,  in  the  delight* 
All  little  book  "  Bluettes  et  Boutades  "  from  which  we  gatho  a 
few  specimens,  and  which  should  secure  him  an  honouiable  niche 
among  French  writers  of  Pensies,  tells  us  that  "  wit  makes  a  book 
live  :  genius  prevents  its  dying."  If  most  of  his  contributions  to  the 
literature  of  French  Switzerland  are  but  little  known  beyond  the 
confines  of  his  own  country,  this  is  not  because,  with  all  the  esprit 
that  made  them  so  popular,  they  are  devoid  of  genius,  but  because 
the  Genevan  patriot  poet  sought  subjects  for  his  satires  and 
moralisings  in  the  microcosm  that  was  so  full  of  interest  to  him,  but 
about  which  the  great  outside  world  knew  and  cared  little. 

Petit-Senn  was  a  born  litttrateur.  While  serving  a  distasteful 
apprenticeship  in  a  house  of  business  at  Lyons,  he  made  his  dAut 
as  a  poet  in  the  "  Almanach  des  Muses."  In  his  twenty-first  year 
(181 2)  he  returned  to  Geneva,  where  his  lively  wit  and  fhmk,  genial 
natiure  rendered  him  popular  in  the  literary  circles  of  the  city.  He 
soon  became  known  through  the  poems,  satires,  epigrams,  elegies, 
fables,  and  especially  the  songs,  he  published  in  various  Swiss  reviews 
and  magazines ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  took  a  very  prominent 
position  in  the  literary  movement  of  Geneva,  which  he  retained  until 
his  death  in  1870. 

His  first  work  of  any  length  was  the  "  Griffbnade*'  (Griffon  was  the 
name  of  the  college  beadle),  the  wit  of  which  was  pointed  by  the 
skilful  pencil  of  TopfTer,  the  charming  author  of  the  "Nouvelles 
G^nevoises"  and  the  "Voyage  en  Zigzag."  In  1826  he  took  part  in 
founding  the  yournal  de  Genhfe,  a  newspaper  which  has  sustained 
to  the  present  day  its  high  reputation.  But  it  was  through  the 
Fantasque^  which  he  had  the  courage  to  originate  and  conduct 
single-handed,  that  Petit-Senn  achieved  his  most  remarkable 
success.  In  this  publication,  in  which  he  rallied  the  foibles  of 
his  compatriots  and  fellow-citizens,  he  showed  not  only  a  subtle 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  but  the  skill — ^rare  in  satirical  writers — 


Petil-SemCs  "  Pensdes.'^ 


'  of  so  avoiding  all  personalities  as  to  make  himself  no  enemies. 

Jules  Janin  compared  the  Fantasque  to  the  papers  of  the  Spectator. 

De  CandoUe,  Rector  of  the  University,  congratulated  him  publicly 

on  his  success  ;  and  in  a  private  letter  the  illustrious  botanist  tells 

the  poet  in  graceful  verse  how  in  his  early  years  he  "hesitated 

between  Apollo  and  Flora."     Balzac  speaks  of  the  man  who  was 

able    to  support,  unaided,   such  a   work  as  the  Fanlasque,  as  "  a 

■iUteraiy  Atlas,"  and  calls  him  the  Jules  Janin  of  Geneva.     Zschokke, 

Rfiiewell-known  author  of  "StundenderAndacht,"writes;  "How  can  I 

■  express  the  pleasure  and  admiration  with  which  I  read  those  happy 

and  truthful  delineations  of  character  in  which  no  hidden  trait  of  the 

human  heart  seems  to  escape  you  ?    A  great  revolution  must  have 

taken  place  in  the  Intellect  and  taste  of  Geneva,  where  the  exact 

sciences  used  to  monopolise    all    the    altars,  and    from    whence 

literature  seemed  to  have  been  banished  with  Jean- Jacques." 

Besides  his  numerous  contributions  in  verse  and  prose  to  Swiss 
publications,  Petit-Senn  wrote  for  several  French  journals,  the  Rmue 
tie  Paris,  the  Magasin  Pittoresgue,  the  Salui  Public,  the  Artiste,  and 
the  Pe7'ue  du  Lyonnais. 

Not  only  did  the  press  of  France  show  its  esteem  for  his  writings 
by  frequent  quotations,  but  many  of  the  most  distinguished  French 
authors  expressed  their  approval  and  sympathy.  Madame  Neckar 
de  Saussure  writes;  "The  beauties  of  nature  and  the  sweetest 
emotions  of  the  human  lieart  have  found  in  you  an  harmonious 
interpreter."  "  You  prove  to  us,  sir,"  Victor  Hugo  writes  in  a 
lettei  to  Petit-Senn,  "  that  for  taste,  grace,  and  pleasantry  of  the 
right  kind,  Geneva  is  still  quite  a  French  town."  Ch3leaubriand 
congratulates  him  no  less  gracefully. 

Inhis  later  poems^  among  wh:ch  "  Perce-neige  "and  "  Mes  Cheveux 
Blancs"  deserve  special  mention — the  vivacity  and  pungency  that 
characterised  his  early  ivritings  are  replaced  by  a  tenderness  that  ia 
not  unfrequently  tinged  with  melancholy ;  indeed,  the  subject  of 
death  had  for  him — as  was  the  case  with  Benjamin  Constant — a 
peculiar,  but  not  a  morbid  attraction.  Still,  in  his  intercourse  with 
the  many  friends  whom  it  was  his  wont  to  receive  in  his  bedroom 
during  the  long  period  of  his  residence  at  Chfine  (whither  in  delicate 
health  he  had  withdrawn  from  Geneva,  disappointed  at  the  gradual 
subordination  of  literature  to  science),  his  brilliant  wit  remained 
undimmed,  and  the  active  generosity  which  won  him  the  gratitude  of 
his  poorer  neighbours  never  flagged. 

Petit-Senn  was  buried  in  the  little  churchyard  of  Chfine- 
Bougeries,  by  the  side  of  the  historian  Sismondi. 


1 


A  id  G^xJJrm^s  J/a^astme. 


*  rluje2s  c  Bccracies  * — w*  icszzi  from  maTnng  the  title  by 
^-TyruTar-t-f — sssoe  iss  2=s  xTcecxaoe  ia  Paris,  in  1849,  and  has 
£:£  lecL  :g.L    I'fd  serczzi  dmes  in  both  France  and 
^zcseiz  Lcc3  Kgw£»  nH.  in  a  pretatcc  to  the  little 
b:t:i.  -vTXss  .     ^  Tber  raps  i^  t^  vciiaae  a  piecisioo,  a  faiddity, 
3mi  X  la^pmrg  z£  tx.i^^iJT.,  v^Sc^  rcniad  ooe  of  the  best  mastasL 
yL  Jai±c^  2L  a  v'ick  rm  h£5  ^aieh-  made  its  maik,  had  alreadj 
fiwiiii  ^  rs^2sa£e  rhir  kc=:  cc  rraTTans  whidi  La  Rocfaefoucaiild 
Ikju^'^'si  r^cL  :h*  cctZecnnsj  ci  Greek  apophthegms^  and  which 
iir';r<L  ic  in  a  «Trr;j  5zc  r>3q£^^     We  shaC  see  how  admirable  is 
IL  7  ?*dc-Se=i'5  sorcess  ri  diSs  /rcry  of  wntii^  what  depth  and 
sstcassT  ht  jSjcuiTTs.  ix  -ri^,  wbii  an  he  leaves  us  to  divine  what 
be  53c$  ztzu  win^  1:  czcrer  z:  set  rencs.     The  satirist  is  stiD  with 
TS  :  be:  ±e  stmt  25  -^nz  rt  ±e  t^acber.  and  the  brilliant  stvle  that  of 


a  TTii.iTf^  rc  ijs 


"^  Lee  us  respect  gzisT  baas  :  bm,  above  all,  oar  own.' 


~  LcTS,  wbez  i:  visn  c^  iDes,  is  like  sunshine  upon 
scow  :  r  is  Trcct  (iirzrr.^  than  warmirg." 


*  We  axjget  the  crain  of  a  aitywit  if  he  remembers  it : 
werenftfcgiber  h  if  he  forgets  i^" 

"^  The  £:k  Hj\^  iha:  enters  the  heart  is  the  last  to  leave 
the  memcqr.* 

'^  Tbe  tniih  aboct  ocr  merit  lies  mid-way  between  what 
pec  jie  S2T  of  it  to  ns  out  of  politeness  and  what  we  say  of 
it  ocrsehres  out  of  cjodesty.' 

**  U'bere  the  inteCectual  level  is  low,  charlatans  rise  to 
distinction.  Tbev  are  like  those  rocks  on  the  sea-shore 
which  only  look  high  at  low  water." 

'•  Those  whom  experience  does  not  render  better  are 
taught  by  it  to  seem  so." 

"  To  endea>*oiu-  to  move  bv  the  same  discourse  hearers 
who  differ  in  age,  sex,  position  and  education,  is  to  attempt 
to  open  all  locks  with  the  same  key." 

"  The  flavour  of  a  detached  thought  depends  upon  the 
conciseness  with  which  it  is  expressed     It  is  a  grain  of 
must  be  melted  in  a  drop  of  water." 


su^^^Mi  mu 


Petit'SemCs  "  Pensifes." 

"  Experience  discloses  all  too  late  the  snares  set  for  the 
jotmg.  It  is  like  the  cold  mist  that  shows  ihe  sjjidcr's  web 
when  the  flies  are  no  longer  there  to  be  caught." 


"  Depend  upon 
party  are  not  of  oiir 


,  the  people  who  declare  they  are  of  no 


"To  hide  a  fault  with  a  lie  is  to  replace  a  blot  by  a 


"  Gratitude,  a  delicate  plant  sown  by  kindness,  does  not 
flourish  in  cold  hearts." 

"  Inclined  as  we  may  be  to  pardon  the  evil  that  is  said 
of  us,  it  is  better  not  to  hear  it  tlian  to  have  to  forget  it" 

"  Many  fortunes,  like  rivers,  have  a  pure  source,  but  get 
foul  as  they  increase  in  size." 

"  Certain  critics,  while  judging  an  author,  search  for  texts 
for  their  own  thoughts  and  canvas  on  which  to  display  the 
flowers  of  their  style, — in  a  word,  frames  in  which  to  instal 
themselves.  Sometimes  they  will  so  dissect  a  work — laying 
bare  the  sinews,  nerves  and  vertebrae  of  its  author,  and 
stripping  him  of  his  flesh — that  they  alone  can  be  seen 
through  the  unlucky  writer  whom  they  have  thus  rendered 
transparent." 

"  Frankness  speaks  of  those  present  as  if  they  were 
absent  ;  and  charity  of  the  absent  ones  as  if  they  were 
present." 

"  One  meets  with  people  who  show  their  lack  of  culture 
by  saying  beautiful  things  so  coarsely  that  they  seem  to  spit 
pearls." 

"  As  under  a  hot  iron  creases  disappear,  so  does  the 
weight  of  adversity  press  out  of  a  man  his  pride  and  vanity." 

"  The  anonymous  calumniator  changes  his  name  which 
no  one  knows  for  that  of  coward  which  every  one  bestows 
upon  him." 

"  We  make  too  little  of  what  we  say  of  others,  and  a 
great  deal  too  much  of  what  they  say  of  us." 

"  A  fool  in  costly  attire  is  a  paltry  book  with  gilt  edges," 


i 


564  The  Genilemads  Magazisu. 

^  Fadier  Time  shows  little  re^>ect  for  what  is  done  with^ 
oat  his 


*'  Silent  fools  are  locked  drawers." 

^  We  only  see  the  great  obstacles  on  the  h^waj  of  life; 
but  it  is  o(tC3i  a  little  difficulty  that  disables  us :  for  a  wall 
does  but  check  our  course,  while  a  stone  trips  us  up.** 

"  Public  speakers  who  fret  and  fume  about  nothii^  seem 
to  me  like  the  ships  one  sees  in  bad  engravings,  with  all 
their  sails  pufifed  out  while  the  sea  b  as  smooth  as  a  mill- 
pond." 

"  The  prudery  that  outlives  a  woman's  youth  and  beauty 
reminds  me  of  a  scarecrow  left  in  the  field  after  the  harvest 
is  over." 

^  It  often  happens  that  a  man  widi  a  host  of  good 
qualities  lacks  the  very  one  that  would  enable  him  to  turn 
them  all  to  account" 

'*  Livery  has  saved  more  than  one  master  from  being 
taken  for  his  valet" 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  our  Mentors  to  tell  us  to  walk 
so  quietly  through  the  world  as  not  to  awaken  envy  or 
hatred  :  but,  alas !  what  are  we  to  do  if  they  never  sleep  ?" 

"  The  defects  of  an  honest  man  are  more  readily  dis- 
covered than  the  vices  of  a  rascaL" 

"Some  creatures  there  are  who  are  too  vile  to  feel 
kindnesses  :  their  baseness  cannot  rise  even  to  ingratitude ; 
that  vice  is  above  them." 

"  Among  authors,  the  poor  in  money  turn  their  clothes, 
and  the  poor  in  wit  their  thoughts." 

"  The  modesty  of  certain  authors  consists  in  rising  in 
the  world  as  noiselessly  as  may  be ;  one  might  say  of  them 
that  they  make  their  way  on  tip-toe." 

"Love  pitches  its  tent  in  our  heart;  but  friendship 
builds  there." 

"  How  many  public  speakers  seem  to  talk  merely  to 
show  that  they  should  be  silent  1 " 


Petit-Sentis  '' Pensiesr  565 

"  Those  friends  who  are  full  of  devotion  when  we  stand 
in  no  need  of  their  help  are  like  pine  trees  that  offer  their 
shade  in  winter." 

'<  We  are  always  exceedingly  grateful  for  services  about 
to  be  rendered  us." 

''  The  pedant  sets  himself  to  teach  us  what  he  knows, 
rather  than  what  we  want  to  learn." 

''Reason  proves  its  greatness  by  plying  itself  with 
sublime  questions,  and  its  folly  by  pretending  to  solve  them: 
its  why  soars,  its  because  crawls." 

"In  the  world  of  letters,  the  spoilt  children  of  the 
present  are  rarely  the  great  men  of  the  future." 

''  The  experience  time  brings  is  not  worth  the  illusions 
it  takes  away." 

"There  are  people  whose  sense  serves  them  but  to 
remedy  their  follies." 

HENRY  ATTWELL. 


566  The  GentUmati s  Magazitu, 


FROM  ARCACHON    TO 
BOURNEMOUTH. 


THERE  are  two  places  of  shelter  especially  contrived  by  nature 
and  man  together  for  shielding  the  frail  and  tender  chest  from 
the  stabs  of  east  and  north  winds.  These  are  Arcachon  in  the  south 
of  France,  and  Bournemouth  in  the  south  of  England.  Both 
places  are  accessible  enough.  So  like  are  they  in  their  friendly 
protection  that  one  may  be  called  the  French  Bournemouth,  the  other 
the  English  Arcachon.  The  idea  is  that  the  restorii^  breezes  of  the 
sea  may  reach  and  fortify  the  enfeebled  chest  alter  being  filtered 
through  groves  of  tall,  straight,  closely-planted  pines,  which  ^  live  and 
thrive "  under  difficult  conditions,  and  in  a  sandy  soiL  This  was 
attempted  on  a  prodigious  scale  at  Arcachon,  not  with  any  philan- 
thropic view  for  the  invalids,  but  for  the  purpose  of  redaimiog  the 
vast  dunes  and  useless  sands  and  swamps  over  which  the  natives  made 
their  way  mounted  on  high  stilts.  The  same  course  was  adopted  at 
Bournemouth,  and  the  afflicted  were  not  slow  to  discover  the  benefit 
Having  visited  both  retreats,  an  account  of  their  distinct  peculiarities 
and  advantages  may  be  interesting.     First  for  Arcachon : 

It  was  just  afler  the  disastrous  war  of  1 870 — peace  had  been  signed— 
when  one  chill  morning  about  seven  o'clock  I  found  myself  entering  the 
French  settlement  which  was  about  an  hour  or  two's  joumey  from 
Bordeaux.  It  was  the  gloomy  month  of  November,  and  the  unhappy 
land  had  shown  all  the  tokens  of  the  disastrous  chastisement  on  it 
On  the  churches  and  various  buildings  of  Paris  could  still  be  seen 
the  bullet  marks  and  the  ravages  of  conflagration,  while  only  a  short 
time  before  I  had  made  the  joumey  from  Calais  in  carriages  charitably 
loaned  by  the  Chatham  and  Dover  Railway,  the  "rolling  stock ** 
having  been  carried  off  or  worn  out  by  the  victorious  Germans  ! 

The  unhappy  watering-place  had,  in  the  Empire  days,  been  *'run," 
as  the  Americans  put  it,  by  the  Pereires,  a  great  financial  house,  who 
had  built  a  splendid  casino,  Grand  Hotel,  and  a  large  number  of 
chilets  and  villas.  For  the  rest,  it  was  an  insignificant  village  of  one- 
storied  houses  stretching  along  a  flat  strip  of  shore,  rather  rickety  in 


From  ArcachoH  to  Bournemouth. 

nicture,  and  compared  wiUi  wTiicli  the  now  deserted  "Grartd  Hotel" 
^looking  anything  but  grand — was  a  monumental  structure.  At  the 
mely  and  deserted  little  box  of  a  station  some  three  or  four  passengers 
'  'Were  set  down,  and  one  solitary  cab  was  waiting.  One  or  two  natives 
lounged  about, who  gazed  with  surprise  on  these  "pilgrim  fathers"  the 
arriving  strangers.  Inland  a  mass  of  dark  green  betokened  where  the 
interesting  pine  forests  fringed  the  place  about,  seeming  to  hint  good- 
naturedly  "  Be  of  good  courage,  we  shall  shelter  you,"  while  an  enclosed 
bay  known  as  "  The  Basin  "  suggested  the  sea,  which  it  was  noL  In 
these  pine  groves  were  dotted  about  the  sheltered  villas  built  in  the 
tyle  of  Swiss  chalets,  about  a  couple  of  dozen  in  number,  which,  in 
B  late  palmy  days,  were  let  at  huge  rents.  This  was  the  season  for 
e  invalids;  yet,  at  the  moment,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three, 
Irery  house  in  the  place  was  deserted.  ■  Tlie  Grand  Hotel  still  kept 
k  doors  open  for  appearance'  sake,  hoping  for  better  days,  and  there 
ore  actually  one  or  two  persons  enjoying  its  hospitality. 
The  astonishment  of  the  agent  as  he  was  consulted  as  to  a  house 
i  something  to  see :  it  was  like  the  arrival  of  a  new  colonist  in 
il  backwoods'  settlement.  It  was  frankly  owned  that  the  whole  town 
\  there  to  choose  from,  and  almost  at  once  a  huge  villa  in  the 
outskirt,  capable  of  lodging  "  a  nobleman,  or  gentleman's  family,  or 
bachelor  of  position,"  was  the  first  offered  and  selected — perhaps, 
^because  in  addition  to  its  own  merits  it  was  quaintly  styled  "  Villa 
E  GOOD  LA  Fontaine  ! "  an  inscription  written  in  letters  a  foot 
h  across  its  face.  And  there,  fringed  in,  therefore,  by  these  dark 
I  pine  forests,  I  remained  for  the  winter.  The  two  people  in 
e  Grand  Hotel  soon  went  away,  and  "then  there  were  none."  A 
ray  family  came  and  took  one  of  the  villas  in  the  pine  groves,  but 
a  fled,  as  the  snows  fell.  It  was  all  desolation. 
Yet  there  was  a  curious  sleepy  charm  to  be  found  in  long 
ilitary  walks  along  the  miles  and  miles  of  paths  cut  through  the 
t  ibrests.  When  contrasted  with  the  thick  deep  snows  on  the  ground,  the 
foliage  seemed  of  a  dense  and  utter  blackness,  and  this  without  ever 
meeting  a  human  being  save  a  stray  woodcutter,  whom  I  was  glad  to 
see,  having  known  him  well  before  in  the  melodramas.  There  was 
strange  solitary  calm  in  tliese  regions  which  was  not  unpleasing,  and 
such  was  the  charm  that  I  found  myself  day  after  day  monotonously 
taking  the  same  direction  and  following  the  same  track.  What  il  the 
"woodcutter,"  true  to  his  instinct,  had  noted  the  unsuspecting 
stranger  and  laid  his  plot  or  ambuscade  !  It  was  a  curious  feeling  to 
find  the  same  impressions  revived  some  years  later  when  wandering 
[^through  the  pine  groves  of  Bournemouth.    Nearly  every  room  in  the 


{ 


Tie  Grmtlmom-t  Mat 


dozen  of  glass  doots  on  a 
Am^  Ae  ciiofa  all  tbe  laaet  winds  of  heaven  came 
ri  naUi^  M  nor  gast  dutoii^  and  jingling.  The 
pasted  over  the  chinks  and 


ff  Kil^  Ac  pfaoe.  A  lesi  nnpleasing  remedy  was 
k  in  ooe  of  the  huge  deserted 
d !  DO  one  to  see,  no  one  to 
,  a  vodiy  poniy  booigeois,  who  ever 
E  Rally  tni,-iodbIe,  and  that  "one 
P™^**"*"  Theie  was  a  "  Cercle," 
it  is  me^  ia  ifae  fitde  uma,  over  a  diop,  with  the  usual  apparatus  of  a 
ii  lahle — for  gamesters  nightly ;  and  to  this 
e  with  aD  fonnality,  and  I  was  welcomed 
fajr  &e  mearixn,  I  coold  see;  with  cordial  antidpations  that  man; 
awmjgm  woiBd  be  tnnsfaied  to  their  pockets.  It  was  a  dismal 
^pntyUnff  at  a  tS»i>,  aod  the  gaie^  Ibere  was  even  more  depressiiig 
than  the  real  depcesaoD  ootsde. 

To  invite  a  genniBe  fit  of  Ibe  bines,  it  was  only  necessary  to  walk 
op  to  tbeck^iaBt  Casino  jnst  over  tbe  town,  built  on  Moorish  lines  by 
a  fint^ate  Pais  arcbikect:  arfiicb  Casino^  before  the  late  "deluge' 
bad  ovowbelmed  mosic  and  orchestra,  had  been  crowded  with  the 
gay  bMlies  of  die  Empire  and  tbetr  gallants.  .Ml  was  now  fled,  and  a 
sad  solitary  woman  was  in  cfaa^e  to  tell  of  its  past  glories.  There 
was  a  tiny  theatre  in  a  back  street — the  smallest,  peHiaps,  in  the  worid — 
where  great  Paris  playos  had  erst  performed  at  great  prices;  and, 
wonder  of  all,  there  was  an  En^ish  "  Temple,"  as  it  was  called,  or 
chapel,  a  bethel-looking  little  edifice,  with  a  worthy  clergyman  in 
charge.  There  was  no  music  ;  no  "  shows  "  ever  came  to  cheer  onr 
desolation.  There  was  nothing  you  wanted  to  be  bought  in  that 
place.  -V  "  commissioner  "  made  a  weekly  journey  to  Bordeaux,  and 
took  orders  to  buy  any  little  thing  you  might  require,  returning  in 
the  evening. 

It  was  a  strange  feeling,  all  through  that  long  and  weary  winter, 
to  watch  the  crushed  and  humiliated  French  "pulling  themselves 
together,"  and  striving  to  recover  under  their  reverses.  One  day  there 
was  perfect  consternation  in  the  little  settlement  when  it  was 
announced  that  Govemmeni  had  put  a  heavj-  tax  on  the  tobacco,  and 
that  every  cigar  was  to  cost,  I  think,  two  sous  more.  Every  railway- 
ticket,  great  and  small,  had  now  to  pay  its  tax  of  a  halfpenny  of 
penny.  But  this  wonderful  and  incompressible  people  was  not  to  be 
daunted.  I  recall  our  landlord  still  repeating  with  a  gesture  as  thougb 
he   were  charging  with   iHe  ba^Qnetj  that   "one   Frenchman  was 


1 

t 


Worth  Icn  PniEsians."  This  portly  being  was  a  source  of  iofinite 
enlertainment  from  his  gesticulation  and  vehement  assertion — a 
good  character  for  comedy,  with  a  sweet  tenor  voice,  that  con- 
trasted oddly  with  his  portly  person.  It  was  a  great  event  in  the 
household  when  he  set  forth  on  an  expedition  to  Paris  to  wait  on 
Ihe  Minister,  with  a  view,  no  doubt,  to  obtain  promotion  of  some 
kind,  everyone  in  those  times  looking  to  be  sub-prefect  at  least. 
■  On  his  return  we  had  the  whole  story — told  in  dialogue  and  exactly 
^(q>roduced:  the  words  and  gestures  of  the  Minister,  and  his  own  far 
speeches;  proving  that  His  Excellency  the  Minister  had 
either  a  vast  stock  of  time  on  his  hands,  or  even  greater  patience. 
So  ihe  winter  went  by.  No  guests  came;  the  same  universal  desolation 
Was  maintained.  An  English  family  or  two  turned  up,  but  they 
remained  but  a  while,  and  fled,  appalled.  It  could  be  endured 
no  longer,  and  it  was  a  joyful  day  when  I,  too,  was  enabled 
to  fly. 

Now  change  the  scene  to  merry  England.  It  seems  a  "far  cry"  to 
Arcachon's  pine-clad  sister  Bournemouth,  snugly  sheltered  on  the 
£nghsh  south  coast,  and  perhaps  one  of  the  most  healing  spots 
known.  It  is  strangely  and  mysteriously  arranged  by  nature.  It 
seems  to  have  started  as  a  professed  sea-side  place,  with  the  apparatus 
of  cliffs,  &c,  after  the  pattern  of  Ramsgate ;  but  these  opening  into  a 
curious  and  sheltered  valley  suggested  yet  a  second  thought,  that 
something  farther  inland  might  be  more  efficacious  ;  and  the  lavish 
growth  of  pines  completed  the  complex  idea.  These  interpose  sieve- 
like, and  soften  the  sea  air.  Nothing  is  more  original  than  this  green 
richly-wooded  valley,  stretching  away  inland  from  the  shore,  and  laid 
out  in  a  garden  with  its  tall  trees,  shady  walks,  and  rippling  brook, 
miscalled  "  Bourne  "  river.  At  the  end  of  this  garden,  and  on  the 
hill  to  the  left,  the  town  has  settled  snugly  enough,  and  developed  into 
a  very  pretty  place.  This  pleasantly  sheltered  "  Vale  of  Health  "  is 
unique  and  original,  and  its  old  trees  still  flourishing  on  the  high  and 
low  walks  on  its  gentle  hill-side,  suggests  forcibly  the  quiet  valley  of 
little  old-fashioned  Spa,  with  its  "  Promenades  of  seven  o'clock  " 
and  "of  four  o'clock."  Here  is  a  calm  softened,  not  uncongenial 
atmosphere,  if  dull,  with  a  glimpse  at  the  end  of  the  sea,  and  the 
pagoda-like  entrance  to  the  "new  pier."  In  a  sort  of  kiosk  plays  one 
of  the  bands— either  "  The  Town  "  or  "  The  Italian,"  while  the  cheer- 
ful promenaders  walk  briskly,  all  arrayed  in  the  melancholy  badge 
of  the  place— the  respirator. 

The  singular  character  of  the  place  is  the  abundance  of  ground, 
which  allows  every  house,  on  hill  or  level  road,  a  good  measure  of 

vou  ccLVjjj.    KQ.  1854.  ■».■*. 


< 


•»  * 


3  Tiu  G€KtUnLiKS  M^iizime, 


zirder.  ilc»-:  '.z,  Szlc.  ic  ±e  iri^:^  riere  2S  an  innniic  diveisiiv. 
Ej  i  -iiry-'j.!  c^?^ir:-ia::':::.  "sjsrt  xre  rimallT  co  poor  in  BoameixKHith 
proper,  or  -iv-jr^  ji  virit:-- j  cLi5&  It  seems  2II  ssalls  and  boxes,  no 
ga^Tri-ts .  i--  :  ::  i.?  in  :.ii  *'lr::  to  5ce  the  irdan  and  labourer  at 
the  c' .-re  'S  'J-.-t  -iiy  zridziz:z  oS  rwo  or  three  miles'  walk  to 
Eosrcrr*be  cr  ler^r.^i,  or  elae.  more  l-ixanocslr,  moanted  on  a 
ihcyr.-e.  O "  t>. e  i"«rtll:r  j  hills  which  rise  oc  both  sides  of  the  tzanquil 
dell,  which  i:.5eci5  'J-.e  ^ lace,  are  cloistered  thickly  booses  of  erenr shape, 
patterr^  2ltA  ever.-  ::-:  of  Drl«:i,  each  sarroaaded  with  its  trees  and 
bit  of  i-irien.  NirMre  here  Ls  wocderrillj  lavish  in  its  prodactioo, 
the  Laurel  thri-ir^-  ir.  ^.r.;fui::n.  the  crs  and  other  dark -toned  trees 
growing  in  shi.:owv  abundance.  The  curioas  fonnatioD  of  the  ground, 
the  place  being  situated  in  what  is  known  in  the  district  as  a 
"  chine  "  or  gorge,  which,  after  entering  from  the  sea,  bends  awaf  to 
the  right,  offers  a  peculiar  shelter  from  the  winds.  At  the  same  time 
there  are  loud  complaints  that  the  general  and  generous  shdter 
supplied  by  the  pines  is  being  seriously  impaired  by  that  noxious 
being  '•  the  speculative  builder."  The  mischief  is  being  vehe- 
mently denied,  but  anyone  surveying  the  matter  impartially  will 
own  to  the  brge  extent  of  the  *'  clearings."  The  place  is  over-built 
to  a  degree  that  is  inconceivable,  though  one  rarely  sees  the  inhabi- 
tants, who  dwell  in  the  vast  collecdons  of  mansions,  the  popular 
idea  being  that  they  are  invalids  who  may  not  venture  to  appear 
in  the  open  air.  Shelter  enough  is  found  along  the  roads  in  the 
pine  forests,  where  arc  the  stately  mansion  in  which  the  King  and 
Queen  of  Sweden  resided  for  a  winter  and  were  restored  to  health. 
It  is  remembered  with  pleasure  that  his  Majesty  attended  some  local 
meeting  and  in  warm  language  boasted  himself  a  citizen  of  Bourne- 
mouth, and  acknowledged  with  intense  gratitude  the  obligations  of 
himself  and  of  his  queen. 

Of  the  goodness  of  the  air,  indeed,  and  of  its  gracious  healing 
powers  there  can  be  no  question.  It  therefore  aboimds  in  what 
are  called  "  sanaloriums  "  and  "  hydros;"  that  curious  modem  develop- 
ment of  the  boarding-house,  or  mongrel  combination  of  hospital  and 
hotel.  The  life  at  these  places  is  a  singular  one ;  and  when  the  house 
is  large  and  spacious,  with  a  vast  number  of  rooms,  as  at  The  Hall, 
Ihishey  (a  millionaire's  country  seat  converted  to  this  use),  the  effect  is 
pi(]uant  for  a  time.  I  fancy  it  is  a  boon  and  a  blessing  for  the  poor 
invalid,  who  finds  company  and  good-natured  people  (whereof  the 
world  has  plenty)  who  will  talk  to  him  and  cheer  him.  Besides,  he 
can  enjoy  a  certain  state  and  comfort,  can  grumble  at  the  manager,  &c, 
and  gets  really  better  value  for  his  money  than  he  would  elsewhere. 


From  Arcachon  to  Bouniemoitth. 

*  Tn  this  umbrageous  retreat  there  is  a  calm  tranquillity ;  you  can 
altiiDe  your  soul  lo  a  pleasant  lethargy,  reposing  your  intellectual 
self  on  the  worthy  and  often  good  personages  who  figure  in  this  sort 
of  stage.  There  are  here  grand  galleries,  corridors,  and  spacious 
apartments,  so  there  is  not  that  unpleasant  herding 'v'x'Ca  your  fellows, 
owing  to  lack  of  room,  which  too  often  makes  one  of  the  tortures  of 
life,  to  certain  minds  at  least.  There  is  just  completed  at  our  setlle- 
inent  a  truly  ambitious  structure  of  this  kind  known  as  the  Mont 
Dor^,  which,  after  unusual  vicissitudes,  is  now  on  the  eve  of  being 
opened.  It  rises  out  of  the  valley  pleasantly  and  invitingly,  not 
without  an  imposing  air  of  stale,  and  is  sheltered  all  round  with  a 
fresh  and  heavy  cloak  of  planting  and  verdure.  The  spot,  we  are 
told,  was  selected  after  examination  of  the  claims  of  the  most  suitable 
spots  in  England.  Let  us  hope,  not  with  the  same  result  as  that 
which  attended  the  stone  used  in  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  selected 
with  the  same  scriipiilous  care  and  experiment.  As  an  odd  proof  of 
the  salubrity  of  its  air  we  may  point  to  the  fifty  doctors  who  are  said 
to  live  and  thrive  here  ;  and,  finally,  it  may  be  mentioned  as  an  in- 
teresting fact  that  the  foremost  and  most  recherchh  tradesman  of 
the  place,  bears  the  name  of  Fudge.  Thus  much  for  the  "  hydros," 
or  "  hydropathic  establishments,"  with  their  Turkish  and  other  baths, 
resident  doctor,  &c. 

No  place  is  so  "  bechurched  "  as  this,  or  has  so  many  religious 
sections.  Every  shade  and  tint  of  Christianity  is  fairly  represented. 
Here  is  the  beautiful  church  of  St.  Peter's,  the  most  successful  of 
modem  works,  the  best  of  the  accomplished  Street,  whose  graceful 
spire,  from  whatever  point  of  view,  always  attracts  and  pleases ; 
and  in  a  beautiful  retired  road,  umbrageous  to  a  degree,  is  nearly 
completed  another  edifice,  the  Bennett  Memorial  Church,  also  re- 
markable for  its  true  architectural  spirit.  Close  by  is  the  pretty 
Catholic  church,  with  its  angelus  tower  and  bell.  There  is  here  a 
flourishing  and  zealous  congregation. 

There  are  some  interesting  residents  who  lend  pleasant  and  refined 
flavour  to  this  retreat.  Foremost  among  them  is  the  veteran  Sir 
Henry  Taylor,  whose  famous  play  has  obtained  a  reputation  which 
no  blank  verse  performance  of  these  later  times  i.s  ever  thought 
likely  to  reach.  This  success  is  so  extraordinary  and  exceptional, 
considering  the  difficulty  suggested  by  the  foreign  subject,  that  it 
speaks  wonders  for  the  ability  of  the  writer.  There  are  lines  in  this 
piece  which  have  become  part  of  the  common  quotable  stock,  such 
as  "The  world  knows  nothing  of  its  greatest  men."  His  pleasant 
retreat  has  seen  a  tide  of  clever  and  accomplished  visitors  ;  for  such  a. 


1 


572  The  Genilemans  Magazine. 

man  has  naturally  a  large  circle  of  admirers  and  friends.  Within  the 
last  few  weeks  he  has  again  excited  public  attention  by  telling  the 
story  of  his  long  life  :  and  this  talent  of  writing  has  descended  to  his 

family. 

Another  accomplished  man  lives  within  easy  hail  of  Bournemouth, 
and  he  too  has  recently  told  the  story  of  his  life  and  adventures,  viz. 
Lord  Malmesbury,  whose  amusing  and  vivacious  diary  was  the 
genuine  success  of  the  past  season.  A  more  lively  and  sparkling 
chronicle  could  not  be  conceived.  None  the  worse  for  an  occasional 
indiscretion,  these  two  books,  on  the  whole,  have  helped  to  prove 
that  old  age  is  becoming  an  art,  and  that  youth  of  mind  and  spirit 
may  be  cultivated.  It  would  be  strange  if,  by  some  odd  reversal, 
dulness  and  feebleness  were  transferred  to  our  early  years. 

Here,  too,  near  Christchurch,  is  the  eminent  member  of  the  extinct 
Fourth  party,  Sir  Henry  Drummond  Wolff ;  with  the  son  of  the  poet 
Shelley,  at  Boscombe  Manor;  while,  until  a  few  weeks  ago,  there 
flourished  at  his  beautiful  place,  Lindisfame,  in  Gerbas  Road,  whither 
he  used  to  fly  for  shelter  from  London  east  winds — the  intellectual 
head  of  the  Tories — the  sagacious  Elarl  Cairns.  A  short  time  before, 
the  **  fell  serjent "  had  interfered  and  carried  away  that  good  writer 
and  excellent  pious  woman  Lady  Georgina  Fullerton. 

Once  stranded  in  a  little  Welsh  town,  and  sorely  off  for  dis- 
traction, I  discovered  one  of  those  strange  beings  who  have  a  mania 
for  forming  museums — so  they  call  them — in  which  the  main  attractions 
are  some  bones  of  a  whale,  a  few  old  flags  "  saved  from  the  wreck  of 
the  Mary  Amu"  off"  the  coast  in  the  "famous  storm  of  185 — ^" ; 
a  piece  of  stone  that  might  be  a  "  fragment  of  a  font,"  or  anything ; 
preixirations  in  glass  bottles;  and  old  newspapers  framed.  But  what 
was  most  piquant  was  the  garden,  in  which  were  literally  planted  the 
fig\ia*heads  of  various  vessels,  wrecks — or  more  probably,  purchased 
from  the  shipbrcaker  for  a  trifle.  The  Royal  George  and  the  Mary 
Anne  herself,  duly  bent  back  to  the  proper  curve,  and  fittingly  coloured, 
stATxxl  stitHy  at  the  visitor  as  he  advanced,  with  the  drollest  effect 
*rhc  impres:>ion  let\  ^^-as  worth  the  whole  "museum"  put  together; 
nnd  I  rvmcmbcr  imparting  this  new  delight  to  Mr.  Charies  Dickens, 
who  \^;is  so  tickled  with  the  notion  that  he  was  nigh  turning  it  into  a 

WclL  it  x\.u^  with  some  pleasure  that,  wandering  up  our  High 
Sttt\?.  the  CNC  was  CAu^ht  by  something  that  suggested  thw  old 
Avsxs  utvon  — x\  Uulc  w\xxien  gate  labelled,  with  steps  up  a  littie 
I^inU  u  ;  the  |\u^  vvutrived  to  meander  so  as  to  give  an  air  of  space, 
%hUv  uw  iKVxtW^  n^urt^— ^hjdl  we  call  'cm  statues?— stood  grace- 


^M  From  Arcaehott  to  Bournemouth.  573 

fully,  and  half  disguised  in  ihe  shrubbery.  Beyond  was  the  house,  wiih 
a  ruslic  porch.  It  was  "the  Fine  Art  Museum."  This  collection  is 
not  unenteriaining,  and  holds  a  prodigious  number  of  engravings  by 
Cruickshank,  Barlolozzi,  and  others.  Its  worthy  proprietor  may  be 
congratulated  on  his  well-meaning  enthusiasm. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  original  and  effective  of  public  gardens 
in  England  has  been  completed  here.  One  of  the  "  chines,"  that 
cpens  from  the  sea  and  winds  up  to  the  Boscombe  road,  offered 
natural  and  piquant  advantages.  On  each  side  of  this  deep  sand 
■valley  are  the  most  curious  contrasts  from  the  yeUow  of  the  sand 
and  the  deep  green  of  the  fijr2e.  In  this  strange  gorge  the  walk  is 
laid  out,  leaving  a  rather  wild  impression,  and  winds  on  till  it  opens 
into  the  usual  grass  grounds,  with  mstic  bridges,  summer-houses, 
lawn'tennis  grounds,  and  the  rest.  But,  in  truth,  Bournemouth  as 
a  town  is  singularly  well  favoured.  Everything  is  good  and  sound, 
and  developed  with  an  amount  of  taste  rarely  found,  or  rather,  what 
is  invariably  absent,  in  corporations.  In  strange  contrast  is  a  dismal 
place,  meant  to  develop  inspiriting  feelings,  yclept  the  Summer  and 
Winter  Gardens.  Here,  indeed,  is  a  wholesome  spot  to  retire  to,  as  to 
a  desert,  to  review  one's  past  life  and  prepare  for  the  next.  Sad, 
indeed,  is  the  deserted  glass  building,  devised  to  accommodate 
promenading  crowds,  while  jocund  music  discoursed  from  the 
orchestra.  A  ruined  and  dilapidated  rink,  with  a  shanty  adjoining 
where  some  ancient  skates  were  kept  in  store,  seemed  to  allure  to 
brighter  worlds.  Inexpressibly  gloomy  were  those  days  when  "  the 
Italian  Band"  announced  they  would  play,  in  their  blue  and  silver 
uniforms,  when  rarely  a  dozen  gloomy  persons  strayed  in,  tried  all 
the  chairs,  looked  on  and  listened  with  a  dazed,  vacant  stare,  and 
then  hurried  away. 

We  have  our  large  Town  Hall  and  our  "  little  Town  Hall," 
generally  occupied  by  religious  meetings,  as  when  some  praying 
amateur  comes  round.  Once,  indeed,  the  famous  Oscar  was 
announced,  and  we  wakened  up  in  great  expectation,  but  at  the  last 
moment  a  long  strip  of  paper,  pasted  across  the  posters,  announced 
the  word  "  Postponed."  "  He  cometh  not,  she  said,"  and  so  said 
we  all  This  clever  man  would  have  infused  some  life.  There  is, 
however,  a  pretty  theatre  and  opera-house,  filled  to  overflowing 
when  there  is  anything  really  good.  At  Christmas-tide  our  amateurs 
from  the  Pines  and  other  places  go  into  rehearsal  and  give  a  play, 
performed  respectably  enough.  At  this  season,  however,  the  real 
attraction  is  the  well-known  Boscombe  Manor  performance,  at  Sir 
Percy  Shelley's,  where  is  to  be  seen  what  is  cetuwU-j  vV\^  ■^■c^Va^*, 


574  ^'^  Gentleniafis  Magazine. 

most  spacious,  and  best-appointed  private  theatre  in  England.  Here, 
within  these  hospitable  ^^alls,  is  found  the  most  agreeable  entertain- 
ment ;  the  pieces  are  carefully  rehearsed  and  admirably  "  staged,"  and 
are  interpreted  by  such  well-trained  players  as  Sir  Charles  Young, 
Capt.  Gooch,  C.  Ponsonby,  and  others.  Such  evenings  as  these  are 
pleasant  to  recall  So  that  I  can  imagine  the  old  Boumemouthian 
getting  on  the  whole  attached  to  the  place,  and,  finding  it  soothes  his 
chest,  dreams  on  here  for  many  a  year,  though  the  prodigious  number 
of  respirators  met  with  takes  a  little  time  to  grow  accustomed  to. 

Our  settlement  is  famous  lor  having  more  clergy  and  doctors  than 
any  place  in  England.  As  the  old  Irish w<  man  said  in  hercomplimen- 
tar>-  fashion,  "  the  place  \s  pisoned^i'xiki  'em."  There  are  High  Church 
clerg}-  and  their  wealthy  congregations.  There  are  Protestant  con- 
vents, and  homes,  and  sisterhoods  in  abundance. 

PERCY   FITZGERALD. 


ERCKMANN-CHA  TRIAN. 

AMONG  ihe  most  delightful,  wholesome,  and  oiiginal  novelists 
of  our  own  day  in  our  own  land,  we  must  place  the  twin 
r authors  Besant  and  Rice,  Death  has  broken  the  link,  and  Mr. 
Besant  writes  now  alone. 

In  France  is  another  twin  pair  of  novelists,  Erckmann  and 
Chatrian,  also  delightful,  wholesome,  and  original,  ihe  bond  un- 
broken, differing  chiefly  from  our  English  literary  Damon  and 
Pythias  in  the  fact  that  these  French  novelists  write  with  a  de- 
liberate political  purpose ;  they  are  the  novelists  of  Kepublicanism, 
the  panegyrists  of  the  French  Revolution.  They  have  almost 
in\-ariably  worked  together.  In  their  photographs  they  appear  arm  in 
arm.  We  believe  that  the  only  independent  work  has  been  "  Les 
Brigands  des  Vosges,"  which  was  by  Erckmann  alone. 

Their  first  appearance  was  in  short  stories,  strongly  influenced  by 
Hoffmann  and  Balzac.  The  latter  especially,  as  in  the  story 
"Science  et  G^iie,"  which  appeared  in  1850.  A  chemist,  Dr. 
Spiridion,  had  discovered  an  elixir  which  petrified  all  it  touched. 
He  confided  his  secret  to  a  friend,  the  sculptor  Michael,  who,  thinking 
that  now  he  had  the  power  of  imposing  on  the  world  as  a  transcendent 
artist,  killed  Spiridion,  mastered  his  elixir,  and  petrified  the  woman  he 
loved  and  then  himself. 

In  his  "  Brigands  of  the  Vosges,"  Erckmann  introduced  a  Dr. 
Matthseits,  who  makes  studies  in  metempsychosis.  As  this  romance 
did  not  attract  much  attention,  he  reintroduced  Dr.  Matihsus  in 
another  work,  published  in  1859,  the  first  that  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  public.     It  is  the  story  of  a  metaphysical  Don  Qmxole. 

Then  came  a  series  of  wild  stories  :  "  Contes  Fantastiques,"  1 860  ; 
"Conies  de  la  Montagne,"  1S60 ;  "Contes  des  Bords  du  Rhin," 
1861,  These  stories  are  full  of  imagination,  often  of  a  somewhat 
Poe  ghastliness.  One  will  suffice.  A  painter  Uves  opposite  a  tavern 
that  stands  in  very  bad  repute,  because  so  many  of  the  sojourners 
there  have  hanged  themselves.  He  suspects  an  old  woman  called 
"  the  bat,"  and  at  length  discovers  how  the  suicides  are  brought 
about.     She  has  a  room  opposite  the  guesl-xoom  m  \.\\^  \3.\^\-\!L^'assS). 


\ 


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x.'^  -jir^  -  ru::r.r  zt,lx  Zrri  tclth^  xai  was  bora  ax  Boldestentbal, 
itcir  3*: — rr-c  ~1<  i:nn-r  r*ai  rest  crowed  in  glass  wtirics  at 
j^e^v-n-sIuT.  iiu:  :*T-m£  t:  zie  niliEiae  3t  rie  biaslaess  bad  come  to 
^7r:i:  ;or:rr'.  rr^^ru^  vis  riirni^i  ^  his  fzdxr  to  enter  a  glass 
a.tin^  im:  lir^T  i»i  c!!:  ±n!  fcirccL.  hs  fEdierseot  bim  to  Belghnn, 
v:\ir;.  ^jwj^'ir  le  z*i  i»:c  r^mr^  Ji^^^^-  H^  letuiued  to  P&ld>aigi 
irrc*  z!l  lu  rjcii  ȣ  1:1  nreiriztc.  toe*  xhe  lixx  of  under  asber  in 
"Ti^:  :r^  r^.xi  micrt  r«i  hii  rec^  a  F^?^  Emile  En^mann  was  the 
iciT  ,^'  X  :o:»c55tIif!:.  iai  a±er  be  bad  finisbed  bis  studies  at 
?*ii-r.rcri  ji;  ▼'i!:c  rj  ?i».  where  be  studied  law,  and  took  bis 
OA.r:,T<  iiji^TiK.     I>jra5  the  i3c»5oq  be  returned  home,  and  called 


Erckmann-Chatrian. 


1 


"  Well,"  said  he,  "  how  is  the  school  going  on  ? " 
"  Alas  !  since  you  left,"  sighed  Professor  Perrot,  "  I  have  had  no 
d  scholars  who  have  taken  eagerly  lo  their  work,  except  perhaps 
"one,  come  out  of  the  glass  works.    He  has  his  wits  about  him,  and  is 
worth  something  better  than  blowing  bottles,    I'll  ask  him  to  supper, 
jou  must  meet  him,  I  like  the  lad." 
H       So  Erckmann  met  Chatrian  and  they  sal  chatting  together  at  the 
Btoofessor's  till  midnight,  when  tliey  quitted  without  a  thought  of  the 
^Bkise  union  that  would  one  day  subsist  between  them. 
■       Two  years  passed.     During  that  lime  Chatrian  had  been  in  a 
glass  shop  in  Belgium,  and  had  given  it  up  and  become  usher  in 
Peirot's  schooL     Erckmann  left  the  university  of  Paris  and  came  to 
Pfalzburg,  where  he  called  on  Perrot.     His  old  master  was  reading  a 
manuscript  when  Erckmann  came  in. 

"  Look  here,"  said  he.  "  Do  you  remember  meeting  a  lad  here 
at  your  last  visit  ?  That  lad  is  now  a  teacher  in  my  school,  and  is 
bent  on  entering  the  world  of  letters.  In  spite  of  his  father's  wishes, 
he  has  turned  his  back  on  bottles  and  tumblers,  and  taken  in  hand 
equally  brittle  materials.     Look  ! " 

kHe  held  out  a  cahier.      Erckmann  took  it;  it  was   an  essay 
I  some  social  question,  treated  from  a  very  liberal  point  of  view, 
e  read  it  then  and  there  with  interest.    The  opinions  were  his 
own. 

Old  Professor  Perrot  shook  his  head  "  You  young  firebrands 
will  set  the  world  in  a  blaze,  I  don't  like  your  doctrines — but  allez  ! 
you  are  young  and  1  am  old;  we  see  life  from  opposite  sides," 

Erckmann  at  once  sought  out  Chatrian,  and  proposed  to  him  lo 
unite  with  him  in  establishing  a  democratic  paper,  the  former  to 
find  the  funds,  both  to  write  the  articles.  They  started  their  paper, 
which  was  entitled  the  DimocraU  du  Rhin.  It  ran  through  eight 
numbers  and  was  then  suppressed  by  the  police.  Then  they 
composed  together  a  four-act  drama,  "Alsace  in  1814,"  which  was 
put  in  rehearsal.  A  couple  of  days  before  its  production,  it  was 
vetoed  by  the  prefect. 

Next  year  the  friends  went  to  Paris,  and  wrote  some  articles  for 
the  Rei'ue  di  Paris ;  a  forluight  after,  the  Rnue  dt  Paris  was 
stopped  by  the  Government.  Then  the  MoniUur  Unirerstl 
offered  them  the  lower  portions  of  the  paper,  called  the  "  Rez  de 
chauss^e  "  reserved  for  romances,  popular  essays,  and  tales.  They 
accepted  the  position  and  were  well  paid,  but  they  were  both  ardent 
revolution  is  ts,  and  their  writings  exhibited  the  tendency  of  their 
jupinds.     The   editor     insisted  on   their  writo?,  'nvOmim.i  V^VxijitaL 


s 


tr  dc  ihs.  tfacT  vcre  obliged  to  inth. 
^iF  vsL  jpcassibcT  bad  hud  vorit  to  dLeonta 
fKflk    Tber  sgrk  vas  not  to  the  Fxench  taste, 

fx  uu  the  Jmrmtt:da  Dekaats  and  die  i?/ntf  ^ 


'«. 


XT  ixcsnrievinc.     The  Amcncans  introduced  h, 
z-v^  jttvsrf  'SUi  posmbx  tssie.  ibr  the  custom  of  inter- 
viTjacL  ijxrzint^     Oar  htaarr  Siamese  twins  have 
Sw  ^3iL  wt  wiL  Q3T  OB  the  desciiptioQ  of  the  men 
irjBL  £  Gomaz  cccrc^KXident  vho  sought  them 
.T  ijrzst  insL  Their,  nie  Accret  of  their  method  of 


c  6ifi2XKrc  &  wmsTifgi  on  the  CJumim  de  Far  di  tEst, 
aac  Ijnamf  vcxr  sepazaxed  from  Fiance ;  it  is  the 


.fir  ■m*  t*'  ■!     vsm  dxTfC  to  the  tenninus  and  inquired  for 

*  XL  CxxsoEL  ha^  jis:  gone  to  Iveakfast,**  vas  the  answer. 

**  He  5  a:  \L  IhrraTs  £.iaK£ssamem/  de  ktmillim^  at  the  comer  of 


AzzoTQiiicir  Old  imcn-iewer  turned  his  steps  in  that  direction. 
Tne  Exahtijemsm:!  it  kmi^Um  are  esodknt  institutions,  where  sub- 
saxnzal  and  vhoiiesaaie  meals  are  to  be  had  at  a  very  modest 
cttarrt  thcT  zit  2>c«.  hoirercr,  n^uented  by  persons  of  the  better 
rta^^  Here,  n:  a  side  table,  sat  a  littleman  with  dark  curly  hair  and 
hict.  laroikead.  hard  at  wosi  despatching  a  roast  fowl.  His  features 
wcrt  mariei.  Lis  moustache  military,  his  eye  dark  and  active.  Round 
his  twck  he  ware  a  tie.  i  Ai  Byron.  AHth  the  audacity  which  charac- 
lerises  the  professional  interviewer,  our  Gennan  correspondent  took  a 
chair  and  placed  himself  at  the  same  Uble.  Chatrian  looked  sharply 
ai  him,  and  put  down  his  knife  and  fork. 

*•  I  have  intruded  on  your  breakfast,"  said  the  interviewer,  "  with 
deliberate  purpose.  I  have  come  here  to  see  you,  to  describe  you, 
to  listen  to  you,  and  to  print  what  you  say.  But  that  which  I 
specially  desire  to  know  is— How  do  you  and  Erckmann  manage 
vour  books,  so  that  it  is  impossible  for  the  keenest  criuc  to  say,  this 
is  Erckmann  and  that  is  Chatrian? ' 

Chatrian  smiled  "  ^Vben  two  fellow-workers  are  moved  by  a 
i»mciDle>  have  the  same  social,  political,  moral  and  artistic 


Erckmann  ■  Chair ian. 


579 


ihey  must  fuse  tlieir  identity.  We  write,  not  to  establish 
names  as  authors,  but  to  popularise  and  spread  principles  which 
we  dear  to  us.  We  two  were  bom  under  the  same  sky,  saw  the  same 
sceoes,  were  nurtured  under  the  same  influence,  taught  in  the  same 
school ;  we  live  together,  talk,  eat,  smoke  together.  We  have  no 
differences." 

That  was  all  the  German  journalist  could  extract,  and  that  was 
about  what  he  knew  without  asking. 

However,  he  would  not  be  satisfied.  "  I  am  amazed,"  said  he, 
"  that  you  find  time  for  such  literary  activity,  while  occupying  an 
important  position  on  the  Chemin  de  Fer  de  PEil." 

Chatrian  smiled  again,  and  said,  "  My  duties  on  the  line  consist 
in  seeing  that  others  work.  I  have  my  own  office,  in  which  I  am 
private." 

Nothing  Turther  wasto  be  screwed  out  of  him.  At  last,  Chatrian 
stood  up,  ht  his  cigar,  and  with  a  bow  took  up  his  hat  and  left  the 
£.lablissemtnt  de  bouillon. 

The  attempt  had  failed  ;  perhaps  our  interviewer  had  gone  loo 
abruptly  to  work.  Chatrian  had  drawn  the  mantle  closer  around  the 
mystery  ;  he  had  not  cast  it  aside.  Nothing  daunted,  the  interviewer 
started  off  for  Raincy,  where  the  fellow- workers  lived.  He  had  told 
Chatrian  that  he  would  do  himself  the  honour  of  calling  on  Erckmann. 
Humph,"  grunted  the  little  man  ;  "no  good.  The  A^nw^  will  say 
ett  sorti, — and  you  will  return  no  wiser." 
However,  undeterred  by  the  warning,  the  journalist  started. 
Raincy  lies  a  few  miles  to  the  cast  of  Paris,  on  the  Strasbui^  line. 
Raincy  is  neither  a  village  nor  a  town.  It  was  formerly  a  noble  park 
that  belonged  to  Louis  Philippe.  The  Second  Empire  confiscated 
the  estate,  laid  out  boulevards  through  the  midst  of  the  romantic 
wilderness,  and  built  villas  and  country  houses  along  the  boulevards 
and  among  the  trees,  A  walk  through  the  streets  of  Raincy  shows 
a.  great  variety  of  scene.  Here  we  have  charming  gardens  and 
labyrinthine  walks  among  artificial  shrubberies,  or  bits  of  wild  park 
with  forest  trees,  left  untouched.  Here  again,  fields  of  strawberries 
and  potatoes,  then  a  splendid  villa  with  marble  steps  and  statues  and 
Inses.  At  one  moment  we  seem  to  be  in  I'aris,  then  in  the  next  in 
y&it  depths  of  an  imtouched  forest.  The  nearest  approach  to  it  is 
the  Bois  de  Ckanzy,  outside  Brussels.  No  omnibus,  cab,  tramcar, 
disturbs  the  quiet  of  Raincy  ;  men  in  blue  blouses  pass  to  and  from 
their  work,  and  private  carriages  handsomely  equipped. 

The  house  of  the  "Inseparables  "  lies  not  far  from  the  station,  on 
■'&^t  Boulevard  du  Nord.     The  villa  lies  half  Imiied  a,n\*JT.>^cVAa,vNL\. 


Chatnan 
1^"  Humph 

■  Howe 


\ 


580  The  Gentleiftans  Magazine. 

trees  aiid  beech,  a  little  Tusculum,  more  German  in  appearance  13 
French. 

Our  interviewer  rang  the  bell,  whereupon  dogs  began  to  bark,  and 
when  the  Alsalian  bonm  opened  the  door,  out  bounced  a  great  black 
Newfoundlander,  accompanied  by  a  lively  terrier,  also  inseparables. 
The  visitor  sent  in  his  card,  with  the  words  inscribed  on  it  in  pencil, 
"  Desire  voir  M.  Erckmann  pour  une  minute  et  demie,"  fully 
resolved,  if  accorded  his  minute  and  a  half,  to  make  it  into  three 
quarters  of  an  hour.  The  bonne  said  nothing  about  her  master's 
absence,  as  Chatrian  had  warned  ;  and  she  returned  a  minute  after 
with  a  stout,  middle-sized,  hearty  man,  with  short  fair  mcuslache,  a 
bald  head,  and  a  broad  moon-shaped  rosy  face — Emile  Erckmann, 
with  extended  hand  and  hearty  welcome. 

The  interviewer  makes  his  apologies  for  interrupting  the  author — 
that  he  was  interrupting  him  was  shown  by  the  pen  stuck  behind  his 
car — and  then  plainly  told  his  object.  He  said  thai  he  had  vidted 
M.  Chairian,  but  had  found  him  a  sealed  book  which  he  could  not 
open,  and  that  therefore  he  came  to  M.  Erckmann,  in  hopes  of  find- 
ing him  more  favourably  and  communicatively  disposed. 

Erckmann's  grey  eyes  twinkled  with  fun, 

"  So,  you  are  a  German  !  Ugh  !  I  can  speak  a  little  German 
myself,"  Of  course  he  could  ;  he  had  not  learned  French  till  he  was 
twelve  years  old,  but  he  affected  to  be  ahogelherand  intensely  French 
and  anti-German. 

He  considered  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  Very  well !  very  well ! 
Authors  have  to  undergo  criticism  as  well  as  the  children  of  their 
brains.     Come  in,  come  in." 

Then  he  threw  wide  his  iron  gate  and  led  the  visitor  into  the 
garden.  "Of  course  you  must  see  and  know  everything.  I  keep 
pigeons.  Here  they  are.  Also  fowls  ;  do  you  desire  to  know  what 
the  different  kinds  ate  ?  Vour  German  readers  will  be  interested  to 
know  that  I  eat  eggs.  So  docs  Chatrian.  We  are  alike  in  that, 
as  in  many  other  things.  We  both  eat  eggs.  We  eat  both  the 
white  and  the  yolk.  That  is  interesting,  is  it  not?  Also,  we  some- 
times spill  the  yellow  fluid  on  our  clothes.  That  is  remarkable,  is  it 
not?  When  we  have  done  that,  we  wipe  it  off  again.  Is  that  unlike 
other  folk  p     Jf  so,  make  a  note  and  print  it." 

Then,  relaxing  his  bantering  humour,  he  led  his  visitor  to  one  of 
the  pleasant  shady  bosquets,  with  which  Raincy  abounds,  where  was 
a  bench,  on  which  they  seated  themselves. 
"  Do  you  work  out  of  doors?" 
Erckmann  shcolibiahsai.    "  ^0.   lTO\iicai.ion  comes  to  me  only 


Eyehmann-Chnlriait. 


581 


at  tny  wriung-desV.  To  nie  it  is  impossible  to  describe  the  scenery 
and  to  people  it  with  ideal  creations,  so  long  as  I  live  amidst  it.  It 
is  now  years  since  I  left  Alsace,  but  home  scenes  rise  up  before  me 
clothed  in  romance.  Should  I  ever  leave  Raincy,  I  shall  write  a 
novel  about  it^but  I  could  not  do  that  now.  I  asild  not.  My 
imaginative  faculty  will  not  allow  me ;  all  aroimd  is  associated  with 
the  prose  of  ever)'day  life." 

Then  Erckmnnn  led  his  visitor  into  the  house  and  showed  him 
all  over  it.  Chatrian  lived  on  the  lower  story,  Erckmann  on  the 
upper  floor.  Below,  opposite  the  entrance  door,  is  the  dining-room, 
furnished  in  oak  in  an  old-fashioned  style ;  over  the  door  is  a  picture 
of  Rougei  de  Lisle,  the  composer  of  the  "  Marseillaise,"  between 
two  statuettes,  one  of  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  the  other  the  Venus  of 
Milo.  The  other  rooms  are  furnished  in  modem  style,  simply  but 
comfortably. 

On  the  first  floor  are  two  parlours  for  the  reception  of  friends  and 
visitors.  Erckmann's  work-room  is  a  Utile  square  office  papered  bright 
blue,  and  wholly  unadorned.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  a  plain 
deal  table,  round,  with  a  desk  on  it.  The  floor  strewn  with  books 
and  papers. 

"The  handwriting  of  Erclcmann,"  says  the  interviewer,  "is  the 
most  regular  I  ever  came  across.    He  writes  on  quarto  sheets,  in  easy 
L  lines,  without  corrections  or  blots,  and  with  the  utmost  regularity 
J  between  his  lines — it  is  like  a  page  of  Armenian  typography.     The 
r  Kbrary  of  the  two  friends  consists  exclusively  of  historical  and  philo- 
sophical works.     Modern  fiction  and  poetry  are  unrepresented,  classic 
literature  sparsely  represented  In  it.     Erckniann  told  me  later  that  it 
was  not  possible  for  him  to  combine  originality  of  conception  with 
the  reading  of  other  authors'  works  of  imagination." 

In  an  adjoining  building  is  a  charming  billiard-room,  adorned, 
■long  the  walls,  with  antiquities  of  all  sorts.  This  is  the  rendezvous  of  a 
small  circle  of  choice  spirits,  Parisian  authors,  artistes,  and  theatrical 
directors,  who  meet  here  once  a  week,  to  drink  beer  and  smoke  Erck- 
mann-Chatrian's  excellent  cigars.  Erckmann  himself  is  not  a  billiard- 
player,  and  often  whilst  the  billiard-room  is  full  of  his  friends  he 
remains  invisible  in  his  "  blue  den."  He  has,  maybe,  an  idea,  a 
scene  that  must  be  described,  and  till  that  is  written  he  is  useless  in 
society  ;  his  mind  is  elsewhere  occupied. 

The  villa  is  supplied  with  every  comfort,  a  bath-room,  a  balcony, 
and  a  veranda. 

When  the  visitor  had  been  taken  over  the  house  and  shown  every 
'  Aing^  down  to  the  page  that  Erckmann  ^Naa  eivga^iii  otv  ■«V«.\OKfii''a€^ 


58a  Thf  Gat/lemaH's  Afagaztue. 

mi^vitblkeiakjretwetBina  it,  tbey  sat  down  id  the  dintng- 
tbc  oak  table :  a  kmmia^  Gennui  stone  jug  of  Strasburg  beer  tras 
prodnccd,  tugaha  wiA  c^us,  and  there,  at  Usr,  the  secret  of  hov 
tbc  two  &iesds  varied  together  and  produced  writings  of  such 
Builuiui  teimre  came  out  We  will  git-e  M.  Erckmann's  own  words  : 
"  Cbatrian,'  be  Gud,  "  goes  every  morning  at  nine  to  Paris  and 
FcturiB  honoe  every  evening  at  six.  I,  however,  am  here  day  t^- 
day,  ftom  eariy  till  late,  vitboot  leaving  (he  house.  \'ou  know  the 
resnh.  Yon  wiD  be  diyosed  to  undeniiluc  the  importance  of 
Cbatrian  and  lus  significance  for  mj-self  and  our  labours,  when  I  tell 
yon  ibat  sima  we  Anv  wmiud  tegdhtr  Chatrian  hat  not  once  put  pen 
Uf«^er.  Yes,  it  b  as  I  say.  There  you  have  the  whole  secret  of  the 
tinity  of  our  style,  which  is  not  denied  us,  even  by  our  most  bitter 
opponents.  Tbere  is,  there  can  be  no  difference  in  style,  for  tlie  style 
of  all  our  onited  compositions  is  exclusively  mine" 

Now  it  was  dear  why  Chatrian  was  shy  of  communicatiDg  the 
secret.  He  was  a&aid  lest  a  super6cial  judgment  should  be  drawn 
by  one  not  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  circumstances.  That  the 
value  of  Chattian  is  great  may  be  seen  from  what  follows  :  "  Everj' 
evening  after  we  ha^-e  dined,"  continued  Erckmann,  "when  the 
bonne  has  replenished  our  tankards  with  ale,  we  begin  our  n-ork  Jn 
common.  I  read  over  to  Chatrian  what  I  have  written  during  the 
day.  Chatrian  possesses,  in  the  highest  degree,  what  may  be  termed 
the  talent  of  composition.  He  has  almost  invariably  some  corrections 
to  make  in  my  work.  I,  naturally  a  colounst,  fall  too  readily  into  the 
fiiult  of  inaccurate  perspective — for  instance,  I  paint  a  subsidiaiy 
character  with  as  much  detiil  as  my  hero  or  heroine.  Here  Chatrian 
interferes.  He  has  the  critical  faculty  in  him  so  keen,  and  so  correct, 
that  I  am  often  amazed  at  it,  and  though  he  proceeds  ruthlessly  to  work, 
slashing,  arranging,  recasting  my  work,  I  sit  by  without  resentment, 
knowing  that  he  is  right  and  I  am  wrong.  He  points  out  my  weak 
pages  and  tears  them  up.  I  must  rewrite  them.  He  lowers  the  tone  of 
my  vigorous  scenes  ;  I  feel  a  struggle  in  me,  but  I  submit  He  has  a 
remarkable  talent  for  all  the  nuances  of  expression  ;  I  do  not  knowhis 
equal  in  this.  Nevertheless,  as  he  repeatedly  admits,  he  never  could 
do  the  work  I  execute.  He  is  no  prose  writer.  His  verses  are  ex- 
quisite and  remind  one  more  of  your  German  than  of  our  French 
poets.  As  soon  as  we  have  gone  over  and  corrected  the  work  of  the 
day,  we  discuss  the  work  of  the  morrow.  The  plan  of  the  whole 
romance  is  decided  on  between  us,  before  I  put  pen  to  paper,  so  also 
IS  it  clear  to  me  what  I  am  to  do  on  the  following  day,  before  that  day 
begins.  Here  it  islhalC\\a\.mTi'sva\w\.d\cj'Nsit.selfin  its  full  greatness. 


Erckmantt'  Chatrian. 


583 


He  is  a  master  of  grouping ;  he  has  a  subtle  eye  for  all  the  ramifica- 
tions  of  a  plot,  he  understands  the  relief  in  which  the  several  charac- 
ters are  to  stand.  So  we  often  sit  together  till  midnight  and  after, 
pencil  in  one  hand,  note-book  in  the  other,  and  exchange  our 
thoughts  half  audibly.  At  one  o'clock  the  housekeeper  has  orders  to 
come  in  and  tell  us  it  is  bed -time.  If  we  do  not  stir,  she  puts  the 
lamp  out.  Sometimes  we  are  so  full  of  our  subject  that  we  cannot  go 
to  bed,  and  we  sit  on  till  three  o'clock,  in  the  dark.  If  the  house- 
keeper finds  that  we  are  not  in  bed  at  one  o'clock  she  has  orders  to 
make  a  racket  in  the  room,  to  bang  the  door,  knock  over  the  chairs, 
rattle  the  fire-irons  to  drown  our  conversation,  and  drive  our  ideas 
out  of  our  heads." 

S.    BARING-GOULD. 


rJi'£  PZUTICAL  POETRY  AND 
STJ^ET  BALLADS    OF   IRELAND. 


I 


s  jinctr  riomied  tVmsrfres,  and  vith  some 

nz  ne  2upi  sCE3Cz-d  3t  pocDc  CTcrilcDcc  vhidi  tbdr 

t  T«.i=s  a:;*..'ii*f    Inzc  nrvadzT?  tbcr  cia  cuke  no  sodi  boast, 


izr  Tnr  Ttaerr  if  r-si  seaorc  ss  jdadsedh-  sufiiucd  dcCcrioratioQ; 
X5  r  'las  >essL  rrr.L"in:.  :^  ssks  sad  means  of  latterdaj 


ivicviar  tsftfes  xr:  s:  e=c5rdT  pcactkad  as  to  exdnde  poetij 
■jcrxi'jmg  nfonnr  ix  t^  z3a  >j;ion  of  die  public  mind  in 

F^is  prose  tber  find  modi  better 


axnsL  n  Tnrr  :ur.tae,  mf  dee  is  no  docbc  that  much  of  it,  in 
acgLi'j  anf  w"r.in£  s  ^s^t  rscx  x:i^  to  tbe  point  This  \&  pefhajK 
11  7e  ja.'-'sgtt'L  i:r  ^le  psriccir  baHid  htentme  of  Ireland  had 
lesxrzsitL  \x  je^xue  v^  v^sre  ^x  at  a!I  in  sivpathj  with  the  modTcs 
IX  A:*e:2  :t  tn*  w-jig^  F:r  zsscmoe;  the  ballad  and  general 
TcierT  X  ^if  Yocsi  Ircxad  parrr  of  il^S  eiidted  h^  encomiums 
3mt  lEcrr  avnyLsgied  Fnrryf-  •!J,eis  and  lerievczs.  At  the  same 
zme  ±i=:5  s  >^>  xicct  r  dai  s  dirtinctiich'  Irish.  Indeed  some 
zt  uc  v-tr-r*f:  Ir^ciiai  m:J:g.'s  ±jegwefies  confessed  that  they  quite 

r  by  iziitaron  or  translation,  the  mode  of 


tvTrss».-c  xr»i  nktrMr  ."f  tb:«t:r  of  the  hards  of  Ancient  Ireland ; 

ijc  rS^  r«-*T  i.i=jns»i  tivu  tbe  ballad  Ihentiire  they  themselves 

^Trt2fi  WI5  —  i.trr:  11:^2,  sriri:  wboDy  Ax^k>-Saxon,  and  as  such  quite 

xzcx;ffrc.2?t3C  rr  tbe  sjhtc  *!esius  of  the  people — that  in  fact  it  was 

irarxL  dc<  C^rc.  —  oerivaifcc  and  thercfoe  in  tone  and  tendency 

5-C--2Z-  rvT  tb?  CdJix  J'^rrjee  and  Iteraturc.    So  accurate  was  this 

escirktre   ct  Ui^-  liS.x=r  r:^:  expert  on  the  Irish   language  like 

r;sc»:c  M:»cH-lI^.  OV^stt,  a^d  O'Dcnoran,  declared  that  it  was  all 

v^.  u=iro555t'r^<  to  t:i3sr::itc  any  of  the  songs  and  ballads  of  Young 

Ire-iir^i  irrr  Irisi.  50  xs  to  retain  their  meaning  and  method  unim- 

Tur^     I^  eaccik^  remains  in  the  work  accomplished  by  the  trans- 

Urcc5  JLDC  •3;::arcrs  «"  the  \ofXxx  of  the  Irish  bards  to  show  that  it  was 

BHCiact  wtA  a  pvxssicn  and  rode  grace  of  fimcy  that  is  very  captivating. 

T!ut  k  wo  the  approval  of  so  stem  a  hater  of  the  Irishrie  as 


The  Polilical  Poelry  and  Street  Ballads  of  I  ft  land.   5S5 

Edmund  Spenser  is  much  in  its  favour.  In  his  "  View  of  Ire-land  " 
the  '-divine  Edmund"  telis  us  how  he  had  caused  some  of  the  songs 
of  the  Irish  to  be  translated  for  him,  and  that  "  surely  they  savoured 
of  sweele  wiite  and  good  invention,  but  skilled  not  of  the  goodly 
ornamentes  of  poelrye  ;  ye^i,  they  were  sprinckled  with  some  prety 
floures  of  their  owne  natural!  devise,  which  gave  good  grace  and 
comliness  unto  them,  the  wliich  it  is  greate  pittye  to  see  soe  abused, 
to  thegraceing  of  wickedness  and  vice,  which  with  good  usage  would 
serve  to  beaulifye  and  adornc  vertue."  The  "wickedness  and  vice" 
however,  which  the  poet  reprobated,  existed  evidently  in  his  own 
imagination  and  were  epithets  doubtless  employed  to  stigmatise  the 
fervid  patriotism,  and  not  the  supposed  immorality,  by  which  the  songs 

»irere  characterised. 
The  Irish  language  was  in  almost  universal  use  at  the  period  that 
the  bards  spoken  of  by  Spenser  flourished,  and  indeed  for  long  after 
ihaL  It  died  hard.  In  some  districts  even  at  the  present  day  it  is 
employed  by  many  of  the  people.  And,  perforce,  the  bards  con- 
tinued to  use  it  down  to  a  comparatively  late  period,  for  it  was  the 
tongue  in  which  naturally  Irish  treason  would  find  expression  out  of 
deference  to  the  hostility  of  the  alien  ruling  power.  And  for  the 
same  reason  the  popular  songs  and  ballads  from  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  down  to  the  middle  of  the  last  century  that  have  sur- 
vived to  the  present  day,  were  handed  down  from  father  to  son,  and 
never  appeared  in  print  either  in  the  vernacular  or  in  English  dress, 
until  some  fifty  years  ago,  when  they  were  rescued  from  oblivion  by 
O'Curry,  O'Donovan,  and  other  accomplished  Celtic  scholars. 

Most  of  this  poetry,  needless  to  say,  is  animated  with  the  most 
fervid  patriotism  acd  hatred  of  tie  Saxon  oppressor ;  as  in  this  para- 
phrase of  a  passage  in  a  well- known  Gaelic  song  : — 

Though  the  Saxon  snake  uofolJ 
At  Ihy  feel  his  scales  of  gold. 
And  vow  thee  love  untold, 

Trust  him  not,  green  land  ! 
Touch  not  with  gloveless  clas[) 
A  cuitctl  and  deadly  asp, 
But  with  blrong  and  guarded  giBsp 
,  Id  your  steel-clad  hand— 

FjfoT  were  the  poels  mealy-mouthed  in  describing  the  prowess  of  the 
ish  warriors,  and  in  recording  their  triumphs  over  the  Saxon  foe,  as 
tfae  following  shows ; — 

Oh  I  then  down  like  a  torrent  with  an  hurrah  we  swept, 

And  full  stout  w.-is  the  Sajian  nho  his  saddle  tiuc  kept ; 

For  we  dashed  Lhrongh  their  horsemen  till  they  leeled  from  I'.e  stroke, 

And  their  spears  like  dry  twigs  wilb  out  ul»  'vte^ix^c 

^jot^nv/jf,    no.  1S54,  'i^ 


\ 


Jiu  w.£JTerz» 


M^oL  a: 


Hjcve  L  -mnTUTi  'ftn*  your 
Ail  'ri5ftt£dac7  L  aaled.  wnli 

'In  =3rer  jxui  in.  'juacl. 
TTiii  Erae  xl  as  'li^^— -r  iutwl 

Far  '±LeTe;  wns  'iipitaixi^  in  my  bIuo«i 

Rad  'i^ain^  Ii^t«snsi  ^ri^'jui^Ii  my  buxxl, 
yi-r  lark.  EuJisoLcGi  ! 


Oh  '.  -iue  Fng  ahar  ras 

\Vixh.  Rdmuiance  ct  buaotl, 
Tb£  dztiL  ihaH  rock  bcneaxk  ber  trraiTy 

And  iomcs  wta^  hiH  asti  weed  ; 
And  ^yjoL  p«3l  3ii&i  ^li^tgpm.  err, 
IVake  many  x  ^jcxl  mxcxuc, 
tre  y'lTi  shall  tide,  era  ycc  -sT^a'T  die. 
My  iiirk  Ro^aleiTi  l 
My  -.wn  K osaLii-n  : 
Tr.r:  ^^i  Ttnetit  hccr  muit  rLr-t  be  ci^iti* 
t.re  yo-u  can  fade,  ere  yoa  can  die, 
^ly  daxk  Rosole^n. 

Tt'^  Jacobite  song3  in  Irish  are  vety  spirited.  Tbey  arc  briflif 
^^f  laic  of  the  Saxon,  and  their  tendency  is  more  to  instigate  lesi! 
iitif^  to  that  fcjc  than  to  promote  the  restoration  of  the  Stmxt  dynas 
^  ;t/'  ''•  *^-^^^i ''  OVk  ^,:xv.  v.vc  w.oNTv Vsv.V\rv\"  4av^  to  a  beautfui  j 


The  Politual  Poelry  and  Street  Ballads  of  Ireland.  587 


may  be  yel  heard  in  tlie  South  of  Ireland.    "  Drimin  "  is  the  favourite 
name  of  a  cow,  by  which  Ireland  is  allegorically  denoted  :— 
Oh  say  my  brown  Drimin,  thou  silk  of  the  kine  \ 
AVhcte,  where  ate  ihy  strong  ones,  last  hope  of  Ihy  line  ? 
Too  deeji  and  loo  lony  is  the  slumber  ihey  lake, 
At  the  loud  call  of  freedom  why  don't  ihey  iivake  ? 


When  Jhe  Prince,  now  an  exile,  alial!  come  for  his  ov 
The  isles  of  his  father,  his  rights,  and  bis  ihronc — 
My  people  in  battle  Che  ^axoru  will  meel. 
And  kick  them  before  like  old  ahoes  fiom  iheir  feel. 


% 


Tho  ^'  White  Cockade  "  is  another  Jacobite  song  thai  even  al  the 
present  time  is  sung  in  remote  parts  of  the  country : — 
King  Charles  he  is  Iving  James'^  son. 
And  from  a  royal  line  is  sprung  ; 
Then  ap  with  thout,  and  out  with  blade. 
And  we'll  raise  once  mote  the  white  cockade. 
Oh  1  my  dear,  my  f^ir-haired  youlb. 
Thou  yel  host  hearts  of  fire  and  truth  ; 
Tiicn  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade, 
And  raise  once  more  the  while  coijkaiie. 

Another  of  these  ballads  called  "  The  Avenger "  has  much  vai't, 
I  runs: — 

The  Avenger  shall  lead  us  right  on  to  the  foe. 
Our  botn  should  sound  out,  and  our  trumpets  should  blow, 
Ten  thousand  huuai  should  ascend  to  high  heaven, 
When  our  Prince  was  restored,  and  our  fetters  were  riven. 
Oh  !  chieftains  of  Ulster,  when  will  you  come  forth. 
And  send  your  strong  cry  on  the  wings  of  the  north  f 
The  wrongs  of  a  King  call  aloud  for  your  steel, 
Red  stars  of  the  halite,  O'Donnell,  O'Neal  t 
Bright  house  of  O'Connor,  high  offspring  of  kings. 
Up,  up,  like  the  eagle  when  heavenward  he  springs  ! 
Oh  \  break  ye  once  more  from  the  SiKon's  strong  rule, 
Ijst  race  of  Macniardioil.  O'flyrne,  and  OToole.  ■ 

These  extracts,  however,  give  but  a  faint  idea  of  the  wealth  of 
passionate  tenderness  and  fiery  fervour  to  be  found  in  the  rainslri'lsy 
of  Ancient  Ireland,  and  it  ia  but  faioily  re-echoed  by  the  poets  of 
later  days. 

Most  of  the  rebel  ballads  of  'yS  were  also  written  in  Irish.     Of 
the  most  popular  of  these,  "The  Wearing  o'  the  Green,"  there  are 
many  versions.    That  which  speaks  of  Ireland  as 
The  most  distressful  country  that  ever  yet  was  seen. 
For  they're  banging  men  and  women  there  for  weorin'  o'  the  green, 
|,.ltas  been  popularised  amongst  us  by  having  been  introduced  into  a. 


\ 


/ 


588  TAi  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

successful  Irish  melodrama.    The  concluding  verse,  however,  was  not 
given.     It  runs  thus  : — 

An*  if  the  colour  we  must  wear  is  England^s  cruel  red. 
Let  it  remind  us  of  the  blood  that  Ireland  has  shed  ; 
Then  pull  the  shamrock  from  your  door,  and  throw  it  on  the  sod. 
And  never  fear,  'twill  take  root  there,  though  under  foot  'tis  trod  ! 
Whefi  laws  can  stop  the  blades  of  grass  from  growin'  as  they  grow. 
And  when  the  waves  in  summer-time  their  colour  dare  not  show, 
Then  I  will  change  the  colour,  tro,  I  wear  in  my  caubeen. 
But  'till  that  day,  plaze  God,  Til  stick  to  wearin'  o'  the  green. 

The  Irish  melodies  of  Moore  have  not  been  unfairly  described  as 
merely  "  pretty,"  but  a  few  of  them  which  are  patriotic  are  vigorous 
enough — though  even  they  are  decried  by  hostile  critics  as  consisting 
merely  of  English  thoughts,  clothed  in  English  words,  but  set  to  Irish 
music.  Their  inspiration,  however,  is  decidedly  more  Celtic  than 
Saxon.  For  instance,  what  can  be  more  definitely  anti^Saxon  in  its 
rhapsodical  fervour  than  the  following  : — 

Oh  for  the  swords  of  former  limes. 

Oh  for  the  men  who  bore  them  I 
When  armed  for  right,  they  stood  sublime, 

And  tyrants  crouched  before  them. 
When  j-Mire  yet,  ere  courts  b^an 

With  honours  to  enslave  him; 
The  best  honours  won  by  man. 

Were  those  which  Wrtue  gave  him. 

cc  than  this  wail  for  the  fallen :— 

Forget  not  the  field  where  they  perished, 

The  :n:est,  the  Us:  of  the  brave  : 
A*',  gone,  ajii  the  brigV.  hopes  we  cherbhed 

Gcac  w;:h  then,  aa-i  quenched  in  the  g^ave. 
v^>  '  c\^'v^  we  fri>m  death  bat  recover 

T>v>>e  hearts  as  tber  KniOiJed  before, 
1  \  '"^e  f-.-e  of  hljh  heaven  to  n^ht  over 

I  r^  c:r.*Vji:  f^r  :nK>i^^=i  once  more. 

A:>v*   in  :h;s  the  s^vljit  of  many  of  the  purely  Celtic   songs  is 

KcJBvriV««  :><^*  Vc^  wh:>  :'bc:e'>  life  in  this  heart, 
;i  vW.  rc«>ft  v;^  :>.<*.  aII  "k^i:  as  Iboa  art. 
V,vf  .va.  :■*  :>y  socrc**.  :hy  pxxxc,  a:>i  thy  sbowcrs, 
•>diT. : V  ;v^  »^:  :be  w.^i  ir  bet  scanies  bmirs. 

\»^    ,>%  ,->a..i$  as  :Vt  rirVrf,  iiy  K.xjc  as  it  nas» 
Vi.. ;  '•^vi'  libof  w>OK  rktizifiT.T  Jkar  to  thy  sic«s» 
WVt^  Vii^  M<  :^  :^'«'^  "^^^  ***  *3escr:  Hrd's  vest. 


H  fore 

K'Ute 
^  miit 


[  Th  Political  Poetry  and  Street  Ballads  of  Ireland.  589 

Nationalist  song  writing,  however,  languished  rather  until  the 
Young  Ireland  revival  of  1848.  Much  as  the  writers  of  that  period 
bemoaned  their  inability  to  quite  catch  the  spirit,  or  emulate  tlie 
force  aiid  fire  of  the  minstrelsy  of  Ancient  Ireland,  they  showed  pretty 
iclusively  that  they  were  masters  of  the  English  language,  and  had 
'extensive  acquaintance  nith  English  literature.  If  their  style  was 
purely  English,  their  sentiments,  without  doubt,  were  desperately 
anti-English,  and  they  found  no  difficulty  in  their  intelligible  ex- 
pression. Moreover,  their  code  of  political  morality  was  wholly 
different  to  that  of  the  political  leaders  of  our  days.  It  exhorted 
toleration  of  minor  differences  of  opinion,  so  that  all  Ireland  should 
unite  in  the  Nationalist  cause,  and  by  employing  none  but  worthy 
methods,  win  righteous  triumph  over  their  country's  enemies.  As 
'avis  sang : — 

A  nation's  voice,  a  nation's  voice- 
It  is  a  solemn  thing! 
It  bids  the  boniLige-iitk  tejoiec  — 

'Tia  mightier  than  a  king  ; 
'Tis  like  ihe  light  of  nuny  Uir?, 

The  sound  of  many  waves 
Which  btit;hily  look  through  prison  bars, 

And  sweetly  sound  in  caves. 
Vet  is  it  nobiest,  sodljest  known 
When  righli-ous  triumph  swells  its  tone. 

The  one  thing  necessary,  according  to  Davis,  was  to  unite  in  hate 
if  the  Saxon  : — 

We  hate  the  Snxon  and  the  Dane, 

We  hale  the  Norman  men. 
We  cursed  their  greed  for  blood  and  gain. 

We  curse  ihem  now  ngain, 
Yel  Stan  not,  Itish-bom  mm. 

If  you're  to  Iieland  true. 
We  heed  not  blood,  nor  creed,  nor  clan  — 

We  have  no  curse  for  yuu. 

Davis,   too,  had    exalted  aspirations   which  look  particularly  old- 
iiuhioned  and  out  of  place  in  these  days : — 

kMay  Ireland's  voice  be  ever  heard 
Amid  ihe  world's  Epplause  ; 
And  never  be  her  fiogstnff  stirred, 


May  freedom  be  bet  every  breath. 

Be  justice  ever  dear  j 
And  never  an  ennobled  deatb 

May  son  of  Ireland  fear  ! 
So  the  Lord  God  will  ever  smile 
With  guardian  grace  upon  out  td«. 


590  TJu  GentUmafis  Magazine. 

Wlien  this  n-as  written,  it  need  haidly  be  said,   boycotting  i 
dynamiiiDg  were  things  of  the  future. 

The  Fenian  organ,  the  Iris/i  People,  also  produced  poetry  of  a 
high  class;  but  it  was  less  Celtic  in  form,  spirit,  and  even  in 
choice  of  subject  than  that  to  which  Young  Ireland  gave  birth. 
"Speranta's"  (Lady  Wylde)  contributions  consisted  of  poems  on 
divers  themes  not  directly  referring  to  Ireland,  as  also  did  those  of 
Mr.  T.  C  Irwin ;  the  ballads  of  Casey  and  Kickham,  however,  were 
distinctly  racy  of  the  soil,  and  breathed  the  same  uncompromising 
spirit  of  resistance  to  British  "  tyranny."  Naturally,  these  last  have 
become  very  popular  in  Ireland.  Kicltham's  "  Rory  of  the  Hill," 
a  rebel,  whose  parting  with  his  wife  before  taking  the  field,  is  thus 
•piiitedly  described  -.-- 

She  looknl  at  him  with  wonur'j  pride, 

Wilh  piide  uid  woman's  fear;; 
She  flew  to  him,  she  dang  to  him, 

\ad  lined  nway  her  tears ; 
He  feds  her  pulse  beat  Inily, 

^^lli1e  her  arms  around  him  tvine  : 
"  May  God  be  praised  for  jour  stout  1 
Dnivc  lillle  wife  of  mine  ! " 

He  swung  his  lirsl-bom  tn  the  air, 

AuJ  joy  his  heart  did  6H — 
"  \"oi!'ll  be  a  rrecmaa  yet,  my  boy  !  " 

Said  Koty  of  the  Hill, 

Oisey's  "  Risin'  of  the  Moon,"  picturing  a  rebel  muster  at  H 
night  ;  "  O'Donnell  Abu,"  by  an  unknown  writer,  which  celebrates 
the  discomfiture  of  the  Sassenaih  by  "  Dauntless  Red  Hugh,"  as  long 
ago  as  A.D.  IS97,  after  this  fashion  :— 

Proudly  the  nole  of  the  trumpet  ia  sonsdiiig. 
Loudly  the  war  cries  arise  on  the  gale. 

Fleetly  the  siee{t  by  Loc  Suilig  is  bounding. 
To  join  the  thick  squadrons  in  Saimear's  green  vale. 
On,  every  mountaineer. 
Strangers  to  flight  and  fear  ; 
Kush  lo  Ihc  standard  of  Dauntless  Red  Hugh  ; 
Bonnaughl  and  Gallowglasi 
Throng  from  each  mountain  pass  j 
On  for  Old  Erin -O'Donnell  Abu  I 

and  the  "  Fenian  Men,"  who  are  glorified  in  this  mse : — 

See  who  comes  over  the  red -blossomed  heather. 

Their  green  banners  kissing  the  pure  moui 
Heads  erect,  eyeslo  bonV,  sve^^m^^oo.SV'jWyflliet, 

See  tiecdara  svi5  v\iionei  oi^  caOn  ^qv\4  ^\i&  Sorat, 


I 


The  Political  Poetry  and  Street  Ballads  of  Ireland.  59 1 


D^wn  ibe  bills  IK'iniit^, 

Their  bteisetl  slvel  shining 
I.ikc  rivets  of  l>enHly  they  flow  from  each  glen. 

From  mountain  and  valley, 

'Tis  Liberty's  mlly ; 
Oul  and  make  way  fut  the  Fenian  men  \— 

are  the  Fenian  ballads  which  stand  highest  in  popular  eslimalion ; 
and  their  pride  of  place  is  only  disputed  by  Sullivan's  "  God  save 
Ireland,"  a  song  written  in  commemoration  of  the  "  Manchester 
Martyrs,"  that  is,  of  the  three  Irishmen  who  were  hanged  in 
Manchester  in  1867  for  the  murder  of  an  English  policeman. 

Land-league  poetry  deals  exclusively  with  the  land  troubles,  and 
inculcates  as  the  highest  political  virtues  the  practices  of  boycotting 
and  non-payment  of  rent.  Of  the  songs  "Mutty  Hynes"js  first 
favourite,  Murty  has  committed  the  heinous  sin  of  taking  a  derelict 
farm,  but  repents  :— 


I      This  crime  against  land-league  law  is  known  as  "  land  grabbing," 
tnd  another  ballad  formulates  a  vow  against  it:^ 


''  I  own  my  crime,"  says  Murly,  "but  I'll  wash  oill  the  Main — 
I'll  keep  that  liuin  no  longer  :  I'll  give  it  up  again," 


But  ihcsc  things  shall  n' 


In  Ihe  name  of  the  Father 
And  of  the  Son, 
And  of  the  Holy  Ghosll 


Coming  down  to  the  street  ballads— the  lowest  strau  of  Nationalist 
literature — we  6nd  that  on  the  whoie  they  are  less  seditious  than  the 
poetiy  we  have  been  discussing.  But,  as  a  rule,  they  are  wretched 
doggerel,  and  lack  the  rollicking  humour  which  characterised  the 
same  class  of  compositions  of  an  earlier  period.  For  instance,  the 
ballads  of  Zozimus,  a  street  singer  of  the  Repeal  era,  did  little  more 
than  make  harmless  fun  of  unpopular  people,  as  the  bard  did  of  the 
prosecutor  of  O'Connell,  Mr.  T.  B.  C.  Smith.  O'Connell's  convic- 
tion, it  should  be  recalled,  was  quashed  by  the  House  of  Lords; — 


Oh  mushi,  Dan  who  let  you  uul  ? 

Says  the  T,  B,  C. 
Did  you  creep  up  the  spoul  ? 

.Says  the  T.  B.  C. 
There  are  locks  both  great  an.l  small, 
IMd  yoa  dare  1o  break  them  all  ? 
Or  did  you  scale  the  prison  wall? 

S«idllleT.  B.  C. 


1 


592  TJu  Gentlemafis  Magazine. 


No,  I  did  not  pick  a  lock. 

Says  the  Dan  Van  Vought, 
Nor  did  I  break  a  bolt. 

Says  the  Dan  Van  Vought. 
My  cause  was  on  the  Rock, 
Twas  the  Lord  that  broke  the  lock, 
And  freed  His  bantam  cock, 

Says  the  Dan  Van  Vought. 

The  tnodem  method  of  punishing  an  obnoxious  official  is  to ''  set" 
him  for  the  hired  assassin,  or  rake  up  long-forgotten  scandals  con- 
cerning his  private  life. 

Mr.  Parnell  shares  with  the  Phoenix  Park  murderers  the  question- 
able honour  of  the  eulogies  of  modern  street  poets.  The  League^ 
leader's  impeachment  by  Mr.  Forster  in  Parliament  shortly  after  the 
Phcenix  Park  murders  is  thus  referred  to  in  one  of  them :  — 

Pamell's  the  man  that  stood  the  scorn, 

Of  the  British  lion  and  the  unicorn. 
Undaunted  he  defied  the  coercive,  gagging  lot ; 

And  braced  his  manly  heart, 

And  hurled  back  the  dart. 
Aimed  at  his  fame  and  his  good  name  by  horrid  old  Buckshot. 

Carey,  the  informer,  as  might  be  expected,  is  denounced  with 
all  the  vehemence  of  uncultured  virulence  : — 

Since  man*s  creation  'till  this  generation. 

Or  since  Adam  on  earth  first  came. 
In  one  whole  million,  there's  no  such  villian, 

And  James  Carey  is  his  name. 

There  are  also  many  lamentations  in  the  choicest  doggerel  over 
the  fate  of  the  Phoenix  Park  murderers.  Joe  Brady,  the  greatest 
hero  of  them  all,  is  made  to  mourn  over  his  own  death  : — 

(3ood  Christians  all,  on  you  I  call 

To  hear  my  lamentation  ; 
Likewise  on  those  who  have  been  my  foes, 

And  caused  my  degradation. 
In  my  youth  and  bloom  I've  met  my  doom. 

On  the  shameful  gallows  tree  ; 
It  breaks  my  heart  to  have  to  part 

With  friends  and  country. 

A    very  popular    ballad    celebrates  "  Tim   Healy's   return    for 
Monaghan '': — 

Each  Monaghan  boy  did  jump  for  joy. 

And  loud  were  their  hurrays  : 
At  the  corner  shop  they  tuk  a  drop. 

And  sounded  Tim  Heal/s  praise. 


The  Political  Poetry  and  Street  Ballads  of  Ireland.  593 

For  two  long  daj-s  did  the  bonfires  blaze 

On  the  top  of  every  hill, 
And  barrels  of  beer  their  hearts  did  cheer, 

And  the  boys  all  drank  their  fill. 

Abduction  is  a  crime  that  always  excites  Hibernian  sympathy ; 
and  young  men  who  carry  off  young  women  against  their  will  to 
marry  them  are  almost  as  popular  as  Parnellite  patriots.  Their 
praises  are  therefore  sung  by  the  street  singers.  A  ballad  of  this 
character  called  "  Mary  Neill,"  was  vastly  popular  in  the  North  of 
Ireland  a  few  years  since,  and  may  still  be  heard  there.  The  lover 
tells  his  own  story : — 

Vm  a  bold  undaunted  Irishman,  my  name  is  John  McCann, 

I'm  a  native  of  sweet  Donegal,  convenient  to  Strabane  ; 

For  the  stealing  of  an  heiress,  I  lie  in  LifTord  jail 

And  her  father  swears  he  will  me  hang  for  his  daughter  Mary  Ncill. 

But  the  culprit  was  not  hanged.  The  lady  took  compassion  on  him 
and,  instead  of  swearing  his  life  away,  swore  him  scathless  out  of 
prison,  by  avowing  that  she  herself  was  an  accomplice  in  her  lover's 
offence.  The  stem  parent  too  relented.  The  lovers  got  married  and 
took  shipping  for  America.  In  a  storm  the  bride  was  washed  over- 
board, but  the  "  bold  undaunted "  bridegroom  was  equal  to  the 
occasion  : — 

Iler  yellow  locks  I  soon  espied  as  they  floated  on' the  gale, 
I  jumped  into  the  raging  deep,  and  saved  my  Mary  Neill. 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  the  extracts  here  quoted  are  merely 
meant  to  show  the  decadence  of  Irish  poetry,  not  merely  in  literary 
merit  and  mechanism,  but  in  the  spirit  which  pervades  it.  No  attempt 
whatever  is  made  to  touch  even  the  fringe  of  so  comprehensive  and 
absorbing  a  subject  as  that  of  the  study  of  Celtic  literature  in  prose 
and  verse. 

RICHARD   PIGOTT. 


594  "^^  Gentlematis  Magazine. 


MAN  AND  MYTHS. 


N^  O  greater  stride  in  intellectual  knowledge  has  been  made  in 
_  il-ils  ^'wSeniiion  than  that  associated  with  the  word  Folklore. 

\^  c  Live  Ic-inicd  ihai^  apart  from  books  altogether,  the  history  of 
r-ijLz.  -5  »r.::en  in  his  thoughts,  his  sayings,  and  his  customs.  From 
i::.i.r  :-^  sen,  trom  son  to  grandson  for  centuries  uncountable,  has 
*:«i-.-  r-:::i>:..l:ie\:  :hc  knowledge  of  things  and  of  •men  which  used  to 
*c  vM-.>.\i.  ccrrectly  no  doubt,  but  ^-aguely,  tradition.  The  earth 
C'.«.s  z  :c  s>:«ni  certainly  conuin  in  her  rocks  and  drifts  the  history  of 
>s:r  rz^rv  c>-iz^es,  than  does  man's  mind  contain  the  evidence  of  the 
^-j*t'  jni  cevek>j-meni  of  the  mental  faculties. 

I-^:  ::i  jl  diy  when  man)  things  change  their  names,  we  have  to 
r^:2s:ci':»ir  iLi:  ilie  phraseologv*  of  even  this  new  science  of  Folklweio 
V  jc  f  \v  i  ,:^  ex  ruin.  The  word  Folklore  itself  is  an  example  of  this. 
I:  »->  .":in<\i  :y  Mr.  Thorns,  the  veteran  foimder  of  "Notes  and 
v^vc"  i>v  JLTC  «b«i  he  used  it  first  he  made  it  comprehend  the  scraps 
jL-'i  srr.^U  c:"c™;>us  superstitious  sayings  which  he  foimd  cunent  in 
J..  :\:  *:  ^  V  ■»  -x'S  cf  Fr^und.  With  the  progress  of  time,  however,  Folk- 
;;.-^-  *".  -  vvrvc  :o  z>cJLn  much  more  than  this.     Its  derivative  meaning 

sense,  and  we  say  that  Folklore,  the  knowledge 

c  7ecrk\  comprehends  far  more  than  vulgar  super- 

"jjr.  i::^  .-r.d  nu\-poles,*'  as  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  tersely 

s  >ir.i  embnces  ever}-  kind  of  knowledge  and 

, ^ , •    \  ■  . :^  .;  >:;>::  ar.d custoni, known  or  practised  by  the  working 

'i '^  *  .  \-  *•  ,vvcr.  v^:  :>.c  xf  ."r'.d  ir.  every  coimtr)'  and  of  every  race,  so 

\--  tx     .::  *v.*.^«'*vxU;:  ir.i  ::..>se  habits  and  customs  are  not  book- 

X      A     ^ . :  :>s:  ^^xrv-i^.e  nrncvrcn  in  the  mirror-like  surface  of  the 

vv./v  lire  cf  :he  great  world-tree  which  floiuishes 

. :  :he  r.ist.     I:  is  obvious  that  when  once  the 

>  cJ  r.Mr  kiro  is  irisr-ed.  and  still  more  the  continuity  of 

.  ^    ^,  .  ,•     ::.\\  f^v**.  :>is  smoy  of  mental  anthropology  becomes 

.    .        -—  -v*<:  iivLV^rrant  and  one  of  the  most  difficult 

,,    V  ,     ,^  ,:  >:  .-„   :  c.r.  ur.denake  to  deal    There  is  no  people 

, .-  V  ^  v^  sc.v.v:^:r^  r.uv  r.oc  be  learned  ;  and  there  are  few  from 


*.N.. 


V         ^  »•  •    - 


>  « 


Man  and  Myths.  595 

whom  we  do  not  in  fact  learn  a  great  deal.  Human  life  has  been  so 
long,  so  diverse,  and  so  complicated,  that  it  is  not  until  we  have  very 
full  notes  that  we  can  begin  to  write  a  guide-book.  A  few  years  ago, 
one  attraction  of  Folklore  to  a  youthful  student,  eager  like  his  elders 
to  form  a  specialist's  library,  was  that,  to  begin  with,  the  books  in  the 
department  were  not  very  numerous,  and  were  all  obtainable  with 
moderate  trouble.  We  have  changed  all  that,  and  it  is  now  impos- 
sible to  keep  pace  with  the  issue  and  re-issue  of  books  on  folklore 
subjects.  Grimm's  "  Deutsche  Mythologie,"  the  great  treasure-house 
of  Teutonic  mythology  and  folklore,  has  been  excellently  translated 
in  great  part  (though  not  completely),  and  when  a  translator  has 
been  found  for  that  most  serious  work,  I  do  not  wonder  that  the 
folklore  of  all  other  nations  has  also  been  rummaged. 

But  we  must  not  only  have  collections  of  facts.  They  are  very 
important  and  very  dry.  They  have  also  the  disadvantage — taken 
by  themselves — of  affording  material  for  eccentric  surmise  and 
unprofitable  dissertation.  If  you  have  any  theory  on  the  origin  of 
the  world  or  of  mutton-cutlets,  you  can  obtain  some  evidence  for  you? 
theory  somewhere  in  the  omnium  gatherum  of  the  world's  folklore; 
and  if  you  know  nothing  about  the  development  of  folklore  in 
general,  you  will  find  yourself  engaged  in  a  very  diverting  amuse- 
ment, much  resembling  the  harmless  lunacy  of  the  amateur 
philologist,  and  alas  !  we  have  not  yet  a  Rhadamanthine  professor 
to  deal  with  guessing  folklorists,  as  does  Mr.  Skeat  with  guessing 
word-tracers.  We  require  evidence  in  this  science  like  other  sciences ; 
and  although  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  has  presented  us  with  one  key 
to  all  folklore,  and  Sir  George  Cox  with  another,  we  may  be  better 
with  guides  not  quite  so  comprehensive.  Religion  began  with  the 
worship  of  ghosts,  says  Mr.  Spencer,  and  ghosts  arose  from  the  recol- 
lection of  dreams,  and  dreams  were  due  to  hunger  or  repletion. 
Primitive  history  or  what  calls  itself  so,  says  Sir  George  Cox,  is  chiefly  a 
description  of  the  victory  of  the  light  over  the  dark,  or  vice  versd,  and 
in  every  Greek  tale  he  finds  a  "  solar  myth,"  just  as  Dr.  Goldziher 
finds  Jephthah  to  be  the  sun-god  killing  at  midday  the  dawn  his 
own  offspring ;  the  twelve  sons  of  Jacob  to  be  the  signs  of  the 
Zodiac  ;  and  Hagar  to  be  the  Night,  '^  flying  before  the  inconstant 
sun  and  the  jealous  moon."  Both  Mr.  Spencer  and  Sir  George  Cox 
have  done  excellent  work  in  this  department  of  the  study  of  culture ; 
but  the  majority  of  those  who  have  attempted  to  grapple  with  the 
difliculties  of  the  situation  are  satisfied  that  the  door  which  secures 
the  secret  of  man's  earliest  religion  and  history  has  more  locks  than 
two.  Ghosts  and  sun-myths  are  two  excellent  keys ;  but  more  are 
needed. 


;:>5  The  GemtUmafis  Magazine. 


Mr.  Cixiti.  m^-cae  name  is  wdl  knovn  as  the  author  of  two  or 
three  bocks  c£  sbignlar  simplicxtj  of  language  and  directness  of 
fF**«?i^tTg^  has  added  anodkcr  book  to  the  groving  liteiatiire — ^  Myths 
aod  DreaoB'".:  achanung  tkle,  which  might  describe  a  three-volume 
Botel  or  a  iioemSxsaxiiaier  weather.  His  book  is,  indeed,  as  interest- 
ac  as  die  coe,  aad  ar  moe  cscfbi  than  the  other.  His  object  is  de- 
icrxcd  in  tbe  ftist  words  of  his  pfe£Ke  as  ^  to  present  in  compendiotts 
xstt  cfJAeaace  which  mrths  and  dreams  supply  as  to  primitive 
f  s  merpreataoa  of  his  own  nature  and  of  the  external  worid,  and 
per-. 1  St  to  iadicaze  bow  soch  eridence  carries  within  itsdf  the 
of  due  cng^  and  growth  of  bdie£i  in  the  supematinaL'' 
*^  Mjtf&s  12C  I^reazs  "^  apdy  describe  the  characteristics  of  the  Solar 
t^eores  azc  dut  Spencerian  theories,  and  we  shall  take  the  myths 

Tile  weed  myth  must  be  understood,  to  begin  with.  I  hare 
allied  23  ±ie  dacxioBaiT  nearest  mr  hand  as  I  write,  and  I  find 
BEvta  QeHTJbed  as  ^  a  £ibie  ;  a  £ibuk)fxs  stoij."  Now  myth  in  this 
xase  2»  sec  wzjsi  we  ire  izxpaxring  about  here.  It  b  «wnething  very 
cw^^*^^*^f  aad  la  TTTistTadon  from  art  may  help  us.  When  a  child 
acesxccs  sa  rake  tbepcrtzait  of  his  playmate,  he  produces  a  representa- 
sasa  aacrs  or  iess  recognisable  of  a  human  £ice,  but  not  nrach  more. 
Tbese  a  a  aose,  tvo  eres^  mouth,  ears — but  no  portrait  Neverdie- 
less  r&e  ciijL  ^JTTwrff  9ee&  he  has  got  near  to  the  result  he  auned  at ; 
he  XI&  t^JLi  is  tt>  say,  gi^en  by  his  own  hand  some  account  of  what 
hcs  suae  seewfes  to  his  eyes  to  be:  Let  an  dder  child  take  the  sketch 
31  ^aad  :  he  has  dx  cotiine  ;  be  does  not  trouble  to  revert  to  the 
cr^.2x«  be:  he  de^ieaops  a  better  picture  ;  not  a  better  portrait  save 
by  nccaces:.  be:  better  in  thb  that  the  elder  diild  knows  how  to 
dzjtsgi^  b^twces.  the  grotesque  and  the  pleasing.  If  after  all,  an 
d  r*iinder  were  to  take  the  bhirred  drawing  in  hand,  he 
d  cc:  of  ihe  mass  of  hasty  and  meaningless  strokes,  produce  a 
Sc^^It  c2l£c  uor.  tor  vhich  indeed  the  or^;inal  model  may  be  said  to 
k&v^  serrtc  xs  su^^iestioo.  but  which  bore  no  more  real  resemblance 
to  bet  y^-**^  od  the  octhne  of  the  first  sketcher. 

Now  a  crth  is  the  mst  attempt  of  man,  in  hb  simple  childlike 
skir;:^.  :o  rvproc-jce  in  words  a  description  of  the  wtmders  of  nature. 
Tbe  <;i2i  riikes  a  Tooroey  over  heaveiL  The  next  tdler  of  the  tale 
kfes^^  tV  Nxisdukc:  if  the  sun  goes  a  journey,  he  roust  come  from 
sc<Dew?x"r«  and  N?  goii^  somewhere.  Then,  too,  if  •*  he  "  ot  "  she," 
w^t  is  bis  or  her  history.  AihI  so  the  tale  grows  until  we  have  the 
{koocs  Phcebcs  .\polk>  ainl  his  diarioL  Now  this  is  a  myth,  bat, 
like  the  chihfs  p^vtiait,  it  owes  its  beii^  to  an  atteni^  to  reproduce  the 


A  myth,  then,  in  iis  simplest  form  is  an  inadequate  aucnipi  to 
indicate  certain  chief  features  with  which  the  myth-maker  has  been 
struck  ;  in  its  most  elaborate  form  it  is  a  poetical  romance,  but  the 
romance  is  not  altogether  void  of  truth,  for  in  its  essentials  it 
preserves  the  outlines  of  the  original  myth,  which  was  itself  intended 
to  be  a  photograph  of  truth.  The  myth,  like  slightly  wavy  water, 
shows  the  mast  crooked  and  the  ship  misshapen,  but  all  the  same  it 
does  not  consciously  misrepresent  them. 

Now  we  may  willingly  concede  to  the  solar  mythologisls  that 
wrhen  once  the  meaning  of  a  word  mythically  (/.c.  only  half-truth- 
fuUy)  descriptive  of  a  phase  of  nature  was,  either  in  part  or  wholly, 
forgotten,  the  creation  of  a  new  personality  under  that  name  would 
be  possible  (Sir  George  Cox  uses  the  word  "  inevitable").  "A  thou- 
sand phrases  would  be  used  to  describe  the  action  of  a  beneficent 
or  consuming  sun,  of  the  gentle  or  awful  night,  of  the  playful  or  furious 
wind  ;  aud  every  word  or  phrase  became  the  germ  of  a  new  story  as 
soon  as  the  mind  lost  its  hold  on  the  original  force  of  the  name.  .  .  . 
Henceforth  the  words  which  had  denoted  the  sun  and  moon  would 
(Jenote  not  merely  living  things  but  living  persons,"  and  so  on.  No 
one  would  deny  that  there  are  many  legends  or  fables,  lo  use  the  word 
in  an  old  sense,  which  may  be  solar  myths,  but  there  are  few  who  will 
willingly  allow  that  there  is  a  shadow  of  evidence  for  the  assertion 
that  "  the  siege  of  Troy  is  a  repetition  of  the  daily  siege  of  the  east  by 
the  solar  powers  that  every  evening  are  robbed  of  their  highest 
treasures  in  the  west ; "  or  that  Arthur,  legendary  hero  though  he  may 
be,  is,  with  his  knights  of  the  Table  Round,  a  myth  pure  and  simple, 
a  legend  of  winter  and  spring,  a  variant  of  Sigurd  and  Perseus.  The 
solar  mythologists  have,  as  Mr.  Clodd  points  out,  done  splendid  work 
ID  the  field  of  philological  research,  but  they  must  not  ignore  the 
place  of  history,  Man— even  primitive  man — (and  for  that  mysterious 
individual's  thoughts  we  have  all  our  own  standard)  was  not  always 
thinking  about  the  stars,  and  the  moon,  and  the  mi  Ik -dropping  clouds. 
He  and  his  started  most  of  our  myths,  but  his  successors,  although 
they  embellished  his  pictures,  and  recut  and  reset  his  jewels,  were 
not  themselves,  any  more  tlian  he,  the  slaves  of  an  astronomical  or 
astrological  almanack.  They  were  the  richer  by  the  history  they 
created  ;  and  in  the  tales  told  roimd  the  fire,  or  floating  down  the 
lonely  river,  they  would  tell  as  much  of  the  deeds  of  their  braves,  of 
I  the  beauty  of  their  women,  of  the  prowess  of  their  gens,  as  of  the  man 
I  who  the  Bushmen  say  shed  light  from  his  body,  but  only  for  a  short 
[  ^stance,  until  some  children  threw  him  into  the  sky  while  he  slept, 
I  ^d  thus  he  became  the  sun — or  as  of  the  Hurakan  of  the  Quiches 


59*  Tht  GemtlemaH's  Magazine. 

J*8™^  *****  myHeiiotts  strength  and  terrors  we  yet  comroemorate 
«  ow  «onl  "  fautiKsiK."  TlMt  ihe  deeds  of  braves  and  heroes  may 
■•s^  be  resolred  into  sobr  a^ths  we  aU  know.  "  it  Senart,"  says 
i^^Oodd," las sKisfiedhiiBself  that  Gotama,  the  Buddha,  is  a  sun- 
nni^:  WlaieKrdiqnMedthceiistcDceor the  first  Napoleon;"  and  a 
Ftewh  twIramiL-  has,  by  witty  etymological  analogies,  shown  that 
'Nipokaa  is  cogtute  with  Apollo,  the  sun,  and  his  mother  Letitia 
idcabot  wiifa  Leto,  the  mother  of  Apollo ;  that  his  personnel  of 
tvchre  nuAals  wcfe  tiie  signs  of  the  zodiac ;  that  his  retreat  from 
Moscow  was  «  fieiy  setting ;  and  that  his  emergence  from  Elba,  to 
i«)e  fcr  twelve  -rnvSa,  and  then  be  Uinished  to  St.  Helena.  Is  the  sun 
rinne  out  of  the  cxstcni  waters  to  set  in  the  western  ocean  after 
nidre  hoots'  trigB  in  the  sky."  Tins  is  excellent  foohng,  but  it  is 
only  reducing  to  ihe  concrete  the  elaborate  follies  of  exaggerated  solar 
mythology.  Taken  in  one  w^y,  the  m<Ml  prosaic  acts  of  a  man's 
cmy-day  Sfc  cotihj  be  represented  as  pans  of  a  solar  myth.  Solar 
th«>-  ate  undoubtedly,  for  nun,  dnlised  or  savage,  lives  mainly  by 
natunr ;  but  the  very  dependeooe  of  man  upon  sun-light  and  heat 
nukes  him  forgetful  of  theory  on  the  subject.  Like  literature  in  Sir 
Walter  Scolt^  bmoos  dehnitioa,  solar  mythology  is  an  excellent 
cane  but  a  bad  cntch.  "Rash  inferences  which,  on  the  strength  of 
Bteie  resemblances,  detire  episodes  of  myth  from  episodes  of  nature, 
ntust  be  resaided  with  uiiet  distmst :  for  the  student  who  has  no  more 
stringOU  ctitwion  than  this  for  his  myths  of  sun  and  sky  and  dawn, 
will  find  Ibem  wherever  it  pleases  him  to  seek  them,"  Those  are 
Dr.  Tylor's  words ;  they  are  exactly  to  the  point ;  yet  even  in  writing 
entirely  in  condemnation  of  tlie  absurdities  of  solar  mythology,  I 
repeat  again  that  the  labours  of  its  expositors  arc  so  valuable  that, 
for  the  sake  of  the  lasting,  the  temporary  may  be  respectfully 
considered. 

Bui  if  myth  is  not  altogether  occupied  with  the  sun  and  moon  and 
stars,  how  has  each  nation's  mass  of  tales  and  legends  been  evoked  ? 
This  is  a  wide  <iuestion,  but  we  answer  it  appro.'dmately  by  saying 
that  myth  gi\-es  us  accounts  of  great  men's  h\-es ;  of  great  deeds ;  of 
religion's  growth  ;  and  of  the  aspirations  of  man  for  a  purer  and 
nobler  life.  But  not  necessarily  has  each  nation  its  own  hero.  We 
do  not  wish  to  re-tell  the  old  siorj-  of  the  Aryan  migration.  Mr. 
Clodd,  although  he  does  not  commit  himself,  seems  to  incline  to  the 
modem  theory  that  the  original  settlement  of  the  .Aryans  was  more 
probably  in  Europe  than  in  the  region  between  the  Hindu  Kush  and 
the  Caspian  Sea.  However  \-iewed,  the  question  is  a  very  difficult  one, 
and,  whether  the  Aiyai^  came  feom  Asia,  or  the  Black  Sea  (Benfey!, 


^v.  or  t 


A/an  and  Myths. 

or  from  middle  Gennany  (Schrader  and  Geiger;,  or  Scandinavia 
(Penka),  we  have  to  admit  that  Ihey  found  at  least  in  southern  Europe 
a  short,  dark  race.  The  two  races  combined,  but  the  Arj*an  language 
prevailed.  A\'e  admit,  then,  fully  the  possible  influences  of  the  Aryan 
myths,  but  having  admitted  the  possibility,  it  is  curious  to  find  that, 
in  almost  all  cases,  the  common  tales,  Cinderelb  and  the  rest,  can  be 
traced  back  to  the  distant  east.  But  we  have  more  thau  nursery 
talcs.  We  have,  what  seemed  solid  European  history  for  many  a 
year,  now  disclosing  itself  before  the  heal  of  scholarly  investigation 
as  false  as  history  but  true  as  something  very  much  older.  William 
Tell  has  his  place  in  history  firmly  fixedabout  1307,  or  1396.  When 
Uessler,  Governor  of  the  Emperor  Albert  of  Hapsburg,  set  a  hat  on 
a  pole  and  Tell  refused  to  do  obeisance  to  it,  he  ordered  the  moun- 
taineer to  shoot  an  apple  off  his  son's  head.  This  he  did.  "Gesslcr 
saw  that  Tell,  before  shooting,  had  stuck  a  second  arrow  in  his  belt, 
and  asking  the  reason,  received  this  for  answer  :  '  It  was  for  you  ; 
had  I  shot  my  child,  know  that  this  would  have  pierced  your  hearL'" 
Now  this  is  circumstantia!,  and  looks  like  good  history  ;  besides,  in 
the  market-place  at  Altdorf  to  this  day  a  foimtain  commemorates  the 
sUe  of  the  lime  tree  by  which  the  boy  Tell  stood,  and  the  cross-bow 
of  Tell  himself  is  preserved  in  the  arsenal  of  Zurich  I  But,  unfor- 
lutiately,  no  trace  of  either  a  Tell  or  a  Gessler  during  the  time  of  the 
Hapsburg  occupation  of  the  three  cantons  can  be  found.  Of  course 
the  solar  raythologists  leap  to  the  conclusion  that  the  tale  is  a  solar 
myth,  and  see  in  "  Tell  the  sun  or  cloud  deity ;  in  his  bow  the  storm 
Of  the  iris  ;  and  in  his  arrows  the  sun  rays  or  lightning  darts,"  But 
is  iirmecessary  to  seek  the  aid  of  the  sun  here.  Saxo  Grammaticus 
,0  whom,  too,  we  owe  Hamlet — giies  us  the  same  story  as  occurring 
io  Denmark,  in  950,  in  the  reign  of  Harold  Bluetooth,  Palnatoki 
WHS  the  name  of  the  northern  Tell.  He  shot  the  apple  safely.  "When 
the  king  asked  him  why  he  had  taken  more  than  one  arrow  from  his 
quiver,  when  he  was  to  be  allowed  lo  make  but  one  trial  with  his  bow, 
he  made  answer,  '  That  T  might  avenge  myself  on  thee  the  swerving 
of  ihe  first  by  the  points  of  the  others,  lest  perchance  my  innocence 
m^bt  have  been  punished,  while  your  violence  escaped  scot-free.'" 
The  same  story  is  found  in  the  Icelandic  Saga,  and  the  Norse 
Saga,  in  the  Faroe  Islands,  and  the  English  ballad  of  \V'i!liam  of 
Qoudeslee :— 


k 


I  have  a  sonne  seven  years  old  ; 
lie  is  [o  me  ful  decre_; 
I  will  lye  him  10  a  stake- 
All  slinll  Eet  him  llmi  bee  here— 


\ 


iik^flid. 


tie  noc-ATyxL  Funs  I3is  sane  sttaj  is  isiad,  bat  vith 

nimiinTTy  n  -^^xsl  r^uos  md  Kihbibs  it  is  not  sur- 

xc  TV  c  anwiTig  inrii.     Jlic  citui  ^^'^^''^g  tiic  Tmks  and 

SIC  Samsrvyssds  ?A£  aone  lu  cf  a  bold  iic1m9' is  toi^ 

"Ite -xni^  JF  prznabk  loa:  inr  SEZTT  is  i^  CMie,of  vast 

^E.  viu^  jss  TP^yf  ifiUL  mriac  id  larrinn.  bss  crenrvbere  com- 
■w»*«n*r  iHgT  XT  iiif  iisTDiT  XDC  ^K  Tsnm»1  IS  mm  s  breast,  and 
leaks  xssf  2:  iiniQ£:  »iigfg\g.  r  is  ssnKsd.    Tbe  localisatioo  and 
asad. — ihf  incal  numnxzi^  as  "w  isr — ^is  lair^lir.^  b^  the  cxnintij  of 
is  aimnrnniL    Swnzzrianc  las  a  bsm.  bat  it  bas  made  many  hf 
4e  ivnmmsDi^  r  rs^c?  ir  rbf  anrinc  ardurs  Sen,  aad  in  giving diis 
juumugMg  IT  ae  mig  rsaisHvec  dot  fbe  ^ledal  qmlixies  of  virtue 
anf  rtucBcs  vp-rc  isar  i:  tie  Svras.    Tb» -keen d*  of  Tell  is  the 
diTKr  iiissir-:  1:  rhi  in  rune?  vrj:i  inus:  h:-ATt  been  made  bj  every 
rromr  Tnrrr  izii  Tr.:.i5er  vr^er  rbi  xmr'i?  frs:  version  was  told. 
TliST  irn:   t   srnn  .    t:j?'    x:5iei    ostils.      Aosaian    domination, 
mjimTETT  Tij:»ur.  j.-ir:L::sii.'nT*.  szrciiied  iz  £r:»>i  lime  all  the  answers. 
Zr  ib*  stTDi  wz^  T-hr*  rr.rrurrf  mzn  raich-  evjcessed  his  ideas  of 
3i£rrr*  i^i  5z:.rr.  r^  rrrti  vbsrbaaded  dcrwn  brwoid  of  wandering 
iDnxx±  p?ir  iLTiTfr-  urrr    r:cr  Trebengre,  perhaps  more  beautiful, 
prrhFp?  mere  :yrr' tu*.  bu:   zL  tbe  jȣiDi.  like  the  child's  sketch 
eabnrT**f  ry  rie  TitiLier.  rbe  \szf7  ir.rzhci.o^  owed  its  existence 
to  the  raie  exrly  zzrib.     Wcoder  was  coe  of  nvan's  first  intellectual 
cxeroaes — wrQcer  2:  2Z  ht  siw  iTid  :'£: ;  mrrhs.  as  Mr.  Clodd  puts 
i:  in  his  -  Lze  of  '^jsus^'  ire  -:he  answers,  ven-  real  to  man,  which 
in  his  cif-clie  bewZi-^zien:  arc  urrer  lack  cf  kr.c>wledge  he  frames 
to  the  c'jeiCDns.  •^Vhr::c^  carr:e  all  these  things?    Whence  came 
we?    yyhzz  took  jlzce   before  its?     How  did  we  come  by  our 
name?*"     The  zzjir.  :r.  h:>::n- is  only  a  bier  answer  to  the  same 
question.     V.'-o  wis   this  bD.d  archer?     In  Denmark  a  Dane,  in 
Switzerland  a  Swiss.     Ir.  Er.g'and  we  have  much  the  same  thing  10 
rememl-er  in  regard  to  King  Anhur.     He  may  have  been  a  king  in 
Lngland  or  not,  probal-ly  he  was  :  anyhow,  some  good  king  left  the 
reputation  cf  peerless  chivalr>\  of  betrayed  love,  and  of  devoted 
followers.     It  was  a  nob'e  tradition,  and  we  are  much  the  richer  for 
our  myth.     The  present  legend  is  the  answer  to  the  questions  of 
/generations  who  asked  who  the  great  king  of  the  past  was,  and  even 
ifwc  discard  every  vesivie  o^  V\\c\e%^xv^a.r5  i^xm^ut  which  romancers 


Man  and  Myths. 


and  poets  have  thrown  arounil  King  Arthur,  we  may  be  glad  that  a. 
notably  good  and  bnive  leader  once  Uved,  and  that  his  best  qualities 
should  have  so  commended  themselves  to  our  forefathers.  "  Llewellyu 
and  the  Hound  "  is  another  tale,  of  greater  antiquity,  and  of  more 
certainly  foreign  origin,  but  in  its  adoption  and  localisation  in  Wales 
*e  have  another  evidence  of  the  national  character,  and  are  the 
'"'clier  by  the  lesson  of  the  faithfulness  of  the  dog  by  our  knee.  Tell, 
-■^»^hur,  and  Llewellyn  illustrate  a  process  of  myth-making  by  which 
'^e  real  hero  is  either  shrouded  in  fiction  or  transmogrified.  "  The 
study  of  myth."  says  Mr,  Clodd,  "  is  nothing  less  than  the  study  of 
'^e  mental  and  spiritual  history  of  mankind  ;  "  and  even  although  we 
'^ay  not  altogether  be  at  one  with  him  as  to  the  science  of  evolution 
^*^  is  not  claiming  too  high  a  place  for  his  study  when  he  says  so. 

But  what  shall  we  aiy  of  the  second  part  of  his  work  which 
•S^ls  with  Dreams  ? 

Dreams  are  allowed  a  special  place  in  man's  life,  especially  his 
'eligious  hfe,  almost  in  every  case  strictly  proportionate  to  his  place 
in  the  scale  of  civilisation.  The  gods  speak  to  men  in  dreams  in  the 
mythology  of  every  ancient  nation,  and  in  the  religion  of  all  modem 
savages.  As  we  reach  a  higher  stage  the  dream  becomes  only  the 
gaide  of  the  ignorant  servant  maid,  or  the  mental  retribution  for 
physical  neglect  or  over-indulgence.  In  modem  life — by  which  I 
mean  the  life  of  civilisation— dreamland  is  the  one  region  of  romance 
which  most  of  us  will  ever  be  permitted  to  enter.  It  is  peopled  for 
us  by  all  that  we  desire,  and  is  radiant  with  all  the  beauty  for  which 
man  hungers  in  the  landscapes  of  earth,  or  else  it  is  terrible  to  us 
with  dangers  unknown  or  abhorred  in  waking  hours,  and  bilter  with 
the  agony  of  suspense  or  despair.  Lut  what  are  we  to  say  about  the 
dreams  of  the  savage  ?  or  of  the  being  probably  almost  immeasurably 
below  the  present  lowest  savage  that  we  call  primitive  man?  AVhen 
man  first  strode  this  earth  it  was  with  a  brain  of  small  size,  and  it  is 
very  long  before  any  sign  of  intellectual  esertion  becomes  traceable. 
He  was  a  healthy  animal,  necessarily  healthy  because  none  but  the 
strong  could  resist  the  elements,  or  escape  the  beasts  of  the  chase. 
What  he  thought  about  we  know  not ;  there  may  have  been  retro- 
gression as  well  as  progression,  but  in  the  main  he  was  working  his 
way  to  the  conception  of  what  we  have  above  defined  as  a  myth  ; 
that  is,  he  was  finding  an  answer  (no  matter  though  it  was  a  wrong 
one)  to  the  queries  as  to  his  place  and  nature,  which  first  showed  that, 
like  his  very  remote  descendant,  he  was  "  on  the  side  of  the  angels." 
However  rude  his  first  thought  ;  however  speechless  his  first  appre- 
ciation of  the  great  wide  world  of  na.l\n:e  N(\vk\\  wa.xe.i  V«  Xnasv^-w. 
yoLCCLVin.     ko.  1854.  "^-^ 


6c  2  TIu  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

licTi  ^zIjtl.  W-f^  co'i  winds  in  his  face,  made  him  cower  in  tefrw 

r:n  ier  'rr-tes,  and  rolled  fearful  noises  overhead  and  underfoot; 

T-t  Ji  \=.f=.  :-r  rt2io:e  ancestor  look  his  first  step,  and  was  Mtuu 

-  Is  ri-e  sJiiToii  of  the  nidest-pointcd  flint  tool  and  weapon  there  arc 

u:i  z^ms  cc  lie  highest  mechanical  art ;  in  the  discordant  warwhoop 

.if  :::  5»ivi^?  :he  lircnt  strains  of  the  'Marseillaise,'  as,  quoting 

7ir^;>:r:.  —  ihe  e^s  of  the  nightingale  sleeps  the  music  of  the 

zi'icci*       *  i  ciz.  know  nothing  of  man's  first  appearance,  and  less  of 

i-i  !.->;  :"":.,-  :^^13  iirecuy.  bat  we  must  take  what  we  can  get    We 

31  :^  i:jiri  :hi  e-.-idence  which  we  have — simple  though  it  be— as 

::  lii  iciTi  ::  =»::£  cf  run  in  his  early  days,  from  the  folklore  of  the 

sii,::  z":'f<  :ic-ri.rc  whom  we  have  some  knowledge  ;  and  if,  as 

"^  •   J  :«-i    _::  •■  siyiw  m'ltn  we  at  List  attain  to  some  understanding 

:.  --" :  r:i; — '  ^rcvLd:::  c:"  nces  still  on  low  levels  of  culture,  we  find 

•  :*::  t:,lz'  'r.^"-!  -iV::r*:riti\i  beliefs  among  advanced  peoples  are 

m:  .mt:^-':  :>_!■:->:: -iies  wr.t  Lirce,  the  conception  of  an  underl}-ing 

•  :•::»  i-ir  :—  rj^::r.5  ::  =:er.  that  do  dwell,  or  have  dwelt,  on  the 

-_,^:  :.  :•.  £i-.\  "wli  r^-ii/.i  2ii:ti?riai  proof 

.r;^:lLr^--i^;  hjlt.  n:-y  hive  thought,  but  he  could  not  dis- 

r.rc--=*-   -.-j  -:':-^-t  --i  .:5  rt-s'-It.     E\*en  when  a  savage  language  is 

-.  .-*    -.-^  .'  wis.  .;  -5  Tver  i^  romi  of  comprehension.     This  tree 

:  -v:  .  ..:  — .^:  ~~:  -  rir;r-.  h-  clsiir-ztiishes  between  them  clearly;  that 

:*',•'  :.-  :c'.r  i-^;-*-*.  :c  :jre  xrh  till,  or  bMh  firuit-bearing — these  are 

-.Tv^L^>^-;'.-*.>   :k.:ri  >..>  ~ezu'  powers.     Counting  is  a  difficult 

Tr.:rr***     i^r:.r\  -r.  Ir..Lir<  i;:  .-^cif-se^  Ir^yond  *^ three"  ;  Austzalian 

V.   j>^\-s  <7*jj.v  ."i" :.    ir:;r  -  f: c:  ~  .•=>  -ziir.y  ~  ;  and  the  Dammarasof 

».-u\:  --:  .-.  - :".  7.-:---'i'i  :i:":er  •*  nve,"  -because  no  spare  hand 

-  T.'  ^-  >'  :^/  >:•:'-•.'  t>i  irgers  thit  are  required  for  units.*' 

•  ->  r..i-«  :..rr-.i:i'S^  '..ke  theAMiite  Knight  in  "Alice 

V  - :  J'  .liow    -•  .:h  the  r,2^es  of  things.     He  cannot 

*  *.    t   •  •  :*r  7.irri  j*-:"t\;  thizc-     He  conceals  his  own 

:c  y^  zirl  pit  :: .  thu>.  t>Oi,  he  will  not  name  the 

:^.s  ■"?  .'>~i-c:s  to  his  portrait  being  taken 

;^  ,       -.>,::>::     ^.-.-t^- >h  ^*ro-een  the  vi^ons  of  the 

•     .-       V  .        c  *\vv.rp<-'   Tjrii.     Tr.us  dreams  become  a 

X ,, .        \'.   i •      J  ;  .».  :. >  rr.'  rti  itiros:  her^,  if  sudi  a  term  may  be 

,  %v  ^  *--    ^  '  ;\:  .jL-j:;-r->  :■;"  ireiitns.     The  one  is  that  his 

V     N  ;.v       '-  *  :-,'\*^  ::  ^.ili  it:  snai^e  adventure  ;  the 

e  his  ecrejed  his  body.    Neither 


« 


»» 


.      V 


N 


^ . .    ^  .    •  •  T^i\-  "  - .  :i*i  t:  th-e  e\7.Ix::at:on  of  dreaming. 


\  ■■     V 


N,^.»       .^       N. 


j;^i  ::s  exrlinadDcs  of  disease  and 


,v.  V  \  -     V  ::<  »v  Sir.  rcs«s  iway  <haing 


Afa/t  and  Myths. 

"'lavage  am  understand  this  very  well," since  he  knows  that  in  sleep  his 
own  soul  has  taken  many  a  distant  journey,  and  his  friend's  soul  has 
diis  time  been  prevented  from  returning.  Or,  if  the  sick  man  writhes 
in  convulsions,  or  shrieks  in  pain,  this,  too,  is  explained  by  the 
presence  within  liira  of  an  evil  spirit.  The  savage  cannot  understand 
death  as  the  natural  termination  of  life.  From  this  Mr.  Spencer,  as 
is  well  known,  deduces  his  theory  of  the  origin  of  religion.  "  It 
becomes  manifest,"  he  writes,  "  that,  setting  out  with  the  wandering 
double  which  the  dream  suggests  ;  passing  to  the  double  that  goes 
away  at  death  ;  advancing  from  this  ghost,  at  first  supposed  to  have 
but  a  transitory  second  life,  to  ghosts  which  exist  permanently  and 
therefore  accumulate,  the  primitive  man  is  led  gradually  to  people 
suTTOundiog  space  with  supernatural  beings,  which  inevitably  become 
in  hia  mind  causal  agents  for  everything  unfamiliar."  Now  although 
primitive  religion  may  be  fairly  enough  represented  by  those  who  hold 
Mr.  Spencer  and  Mr.  Clodd's  views  as  one  of  "  funk  "  as  distinguished 
from  the  "  fog  "  *){  primitive  philosophy  (the  terms  are  Mr.  Clodd's), 
yet  no  one  who  is  ai  all  acquainted  with  the  study  of  this  inincale 
and  difficult  matter  can  admit  that  cither  the  one  or  the  other  has 
solved  the  problem  of  the  origin  of  religion.  It  is  much  too  dark 
a  subject  to  grapple  with  here,  but  this  much  is  to  be  said  that 
Mr.  Spencer's  theory  as  to  the  origin  of  religion  involves  the  non- 
exercise  of  man's  reasoning  powers  until  he  one  lucky  day  either  ate 
loo  much  or  too  little  I  On  that  eventful  meal,  or  want  of  a  meal, 
depended  our  religion  !  And  all  this  time  man  ignored  the  powers 
and  mysteries  of  that  Nature  which  sent  the  sun  across  the  blue  sky, 
and  caused  grateful  darkness  to  bring  coolness  and  rest.  There  is  no 
impossibility  in  man's  evolving  new  gods  and  new  religions  from  his 
dreams,  and  following  a  spiritual  or  ghostly,  rather  than  a  natural  or 
Nature  worship  -  has  Mr,  Spencer  not  himself  admitted  that  man 
retrogrades  as  well  as  advances— but  that  even  savage  man  should 
have  failed  to  worship,  fear,  or  "  funk  "  until  his  dreams  frightened 
him,  is  to  me  unsupported  by  sufficient  evidence,  and  strange  and 


incomprehensible. 
_  jnan's  answer  to  his  owr 
b^  nature  than  wonder  a 


Mr.  Clodd's  own  definition  of  myth  : 
wonder,  more  directly  attachable  to  wonder 
dreams  ? 

WILLIAM  GEORCE  BLACK. 


\ 


THE  MERITS  .-iSD  DEMERITS  OF 
THE  KEJ^ISED  OLD  TESTAMENT. 


B 


xr  InlT  3S;fi 


s  z  Tnnir  sx  iTfifT  to  tiie  pages  of  the 
s«  -wSL  be  scd  br  a  referenoe  to  die 
27^4.  jmd  moic  recently  tbit 
aokd  demerits  of  the 


-'-^Tf^r 


££ 


Tiks  s&incrT  of  oaaapeient  anthorides 
in  Lnuui  <if  arerised  venionof 
d  of  is  BumiMd  inaccmacies, 
re  bzTe  £1  piresent  vithin  oar 
£s  lbs  t-cttt  ablest  agencies,  for 
:c  5::±.  £  vrrk.     "Wbcn  the  first  edition  of 
Ariiic-jAri  ViTSii.-  z-.-eir^f.  iz.  :r:3,  Hebrew  studies  were  in 


215  trna.  t  rnr^iiz^n 


» ■*»■ 


u.,:v.  i^ 


lacr  :=:i2^rr.     Tyj-rr^t's^  •^■^"^^'■^  ibe  erioent  basis  of  all  subse^ 


r*r5i:ci?,  W23  ruiie  ilTz^r^s:  tirl^velT  m>ai  the  text  of  the  old 
I^xr:  Vc'.ga*?.  i=.i  =::^:  fr:»n  Hebrew.     Since  King  James's  time  not 
ocIt  bis  o.ir  ks -wLe-ire  c:  Ktccew  bee^  iscreased  in  a  marrellous 
Ci^rtc.  'h-:  tbe  ineirir^  c:  :3  pictorjl  words,  and  the  force  of  its 
coEsecriitri  iiioci?.  bare  .*«::  d-cidited  by  the  compaiaiive  study  of 
the  idndrei  cikLe-ns  c:  Syriir,  Aribic  £Jid  Etbiopic.     Commenta- 
icirs  'Whose  nusiber  is  legion'  have  approached  the  Old  Testament 
ttfxt  fro:n   every   conceivable    point   of  \-icw,   and   have   minutely 
discussed  ever%-  word  ani  every  sentence  of  the  text,  for  the  single 
purpose  of  bringing  out  the  f^  mejining  of  the  original.     Again, 
there  has  come  tD  hand  a  vast    accuiTiu'iauon  of  other  collateral 
material-*  re'^ui^;::*  to  a  ir.ore  ^^e-fect  unders ranching  of  the  text.     We 
have  ^'ii-.ei  an  increa-ci  ar.d  m^re  accurate  knowledge  of  ancient 
K'^-o^raphy,  natural  history,  rir.d  the  arch.ieolog}-  of  Biblical  peoples 
^" ..  l''^'^'^-   It  is  to  the  combination  of  a'.;  these  advantages,  carefully 
utilised  by  the  revisers,  that  we  must  attribute  the  manifold  and 
>niportant  improvements  to  be  found  in  the  Revised  Old  Testament, 
•'  cntly  issued.     The  most  obvious  merit  of  this  new  version  is  in  the 
f^f mentation  of  its  form.     For  the  first  time  in  our  Bibles  the  poetr>'  of 
tn^  Hebrew  or\'^^\na\a\^vtaT^vo^^^fe'^'^*^'^'^^^^"^^^^ 


I^erits  and Dermrits  of  the  Revised  Old  Tesiamefit,  605 


as  prose.    Thus  Gen.  \v.  13,  where  we  find  the  first  poetical  passage 
in  the  Hebrew,  is  thus  poetically  rendered  by  the  revisers : — 
Adah  and  Zitlah,  hent  my  voice ; 
Ve  wives  of  Lamcch,  hearken  unlo  my  5[iiei-h  ; 
For  I  have  slain  a  man  fur  wouniUiiy  me 
And  a  young  man  for  btuiimg  mc. 
If  Cain  shall  be  avenged  sevenfold 
Truly  Lantech  sevcDiy'OJid -sevenfold. 
This  is  clearly  a  vast  improvement  in  sense  as  well  as  \aform  < 
the  AuihorisedVersioii,  which  says,  "Adah  andZilIah,hearniy  voici 
yc  wives  of  Ijimech,  hearken  unlo  my  speech  ;  for  I  have  slain  a 
man  to  my  wounding  and  a  young  man  to  my  hurt"  Such  a  version, 
We  venture  to  say,  with  all  reverence,  closely  borders  on  nonsense. 

As  the  second  merit  of  the  Revised  Version,  we  acknowledge  the 
ample  justice  done,  with  very  few  exceptions,  by  the  revisers  to  the 
majestic  style  and  musical  rhythm  of  the  Authorised  Version,  which  is 
for  the  most  part  carefully  presented  and  closely  imitated,  where 
corrections  of  errors  have  been  necessary,  with  singular  felicity.  The 
Authorised  \'ersion  stands  alone  in  our  literature  and  language  for 
the  unapproachable  excellence  of  its  style  ;  and  the  Old  Testament 
revisers  have  done  well  in  not  degrading  its  dignity  and  in  not 
marring  its  majesty  after  the  reckless  and  revolutionary  manner  of 
the  New  Testament  revisers.  "  The  consecrated  diction,"  as  it  has 
been  well  termed,  of  the  Authorised  Version  avoids  eijually  the 
pedantry  of  the  schools  and  the  vulgarisms  of  the  market-place.  It 
never  crawls  on  the  ground,  it  never  loses  itself  in  the  clouds.  It  is 
intelligiWe  to  all  classes,  offensive  to  none,  always  dignified,  never 
commonplace.  Happily,  it  is  made  to  speak  still  in  the  Revised 
Version  of  the  Old  Testament  to  a  hundred  millions  of  the  English- 
speaking  race  in  phrases  clear  as  the  sunlight,  and  in  tones  of 
melodious  rhythm  that  linger  on  the  ear,  and  live  in  the  heart,  like 
music  that  can  never  be  forgotten.  Happily,  in  the  Revised  Old 
Testament  we  have  simply  a  revised  version,  unhappily  we  have  in  the 
Revised  New  Testament  nothing  short  of  a  new  tratislalion.  The 
cause  of  this  fundamental  difference  is  not  far  to  seek,  'I'he  Old 
Testament  revisers,  true  to  their  mission  as  revisers  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, kept  exclusively  to  the  work  of  revising  the  errors  of  the 
Authorised  Version,  while  the  New  Testament  revisers,  taking  upon 
themselves  the  self-imposed  task  of  reconstructing  a  text,  and  forgetful 
cf  the  single  duty  delegated  to  them  as  simple  revisers  of  the 
Authorised  Version,  have  virtually  retranslated  the  whole  of  the 
New  Tesument,  to  the  disgust  and  disajipointmenl  of  all  except  a 
majority  of  their  own  body. 


1 


\ 


6o6  Tlie  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

It  is  to  the  credit  of  the  revisers  that  they  have  dealt  more 
fully  with  that  dangerous  class  of  archaic  words  which  mislead  from 
their  altered  meaning,  and  less  fully  with  those  archaic  words  that  have 
scarcely  any  meaning  at  all  to  the  modem  ear.    Words  of  the  former 
class  are  the  more  dangerous,  because  they  give  a  false  light,  while 
those  of  the  latter  class  are  less  dangerous  so  far  as  they  simply 
leave  the  reader  comparatively  in  the  dark ;  while  their  elimination 
from   the  Bible,  where  almost  alone  we  find  them,  would  be  so 
much  a  loss  to  our  language,  and  no  precisely  modem  equivalents 
could   be   found  for  them.     For  example,  the  revisers  have  li^tlj 
changed  the  misleading  archaism  artillery  (as  i  Samuel  xx.  40,  "  and 
Jonathan  gave  his  artillery  unto  his  lad  ")  into  weapons^  while  they 
have  wisely  retained  the  archaism  "  boUed "  (i>.  was  in  bloom,  as 
explained  in  the  margin).    This  term  has  no  precise  equivalent,  and 
the  exclusion  of  it  would  have  been  a  permanent  loss  to  our  language. 
Again,  the  revisers  have  not  contented  themselves  with  retaining  the 
choicest  treasures  of  our  language  which  have  come  down  to  us  from 
the  remote  i>ast  in  its  archaisms^  but  they  have  somewhat  added  to  the 
dignity  and  rank  of  comparatively  new  words,  as  well  as  to  the  clear- 
ness and  fidelity  of  the  version,  by  the  introduction  of  such  modem 
terms  as  startle,  memorabley  peoples,  its,  consternation^  reversion^  rabhlt, 
indutment^  rii'al,  assailant.  Such  terms  were  either  altogether  unknown 
or  but  little  known  in  King  James's  time;  for  the  greater  number  of 
these  accepted  and  expressive  terms  are  not  found  in  such  authorides 
as  Dr.  Skinner's  **  Etymologicon  Linguae  iV^glicanae,"  published  1671, 
and  Francis  Junius's  "  Etymologicum  Anglicanum,"  published  1743. 
In  the  third  place  the  revisers  have  earned  the  gratitude  of  aD 
who  take  an   interest  in  the  "  good  old  Book,"  in  which  millions 
believe   as  the   oracle  of  Ciod,  by  their  carefiil  correction  of  Ac 
obvious  and  admitted  errors  of  the  Authorised  Version,     Here  two 
examples  of  an  interesting  character  may  be  noted. 

I.  In  Habakkuk,  chapter  iii.  verse  4,  A.V.,  we  read,  "  and  his  bright- 
ness was  as  the  light  ;  he  had  horns  coming  out  of  his  hand."    The 
Hebrew  here  gix'es  us  a  far  more  ennobling  description  of  the  mani- 
festation of  the  Deity — "and  his  brightness  was  as /^^//^A/ ^^/Arxwi, 
and  he  hath  /.n  y  (coming)  from  his  side."    Here  the  marginal  reading 
and  the  Hebrew  original  are  identical  in  sense.     The  error  arose  from 
the  twofold  meaning  of  the  Hebrew  word  kemaim  (compare  Latin 
.•<*rnrj/,  a  /**/-»/,  and  C^reek  keras\  which  means  a  horn  and  ray  oi  light. 
In  Kxodus  xxxiv.  rg  it  is  said  of  Moses,  "  he  wist  not  that  the  skin 
of  his  face  shone."    Here  the  Latin  Vulgate  renders,  **et  ignorabat 
quoU  comula  csscl  (ades"  (he  knew  not  his  face  was  homed). 


[  Merits  and  Demerits  of  the  Revised  Old  Testament.  607 
The  r< 


I 

^B        I'he  revisers  have  well  rendered  this  passage  in  poetical  form  : 
^V  And  his  brigbtnes3  was  as  the  light ; 

^^B  }!<:  had  rays  coming  forth  from  his  hand. 

In  the  margin  the  revisers,  for  "his  hand,"  give  as  a  vari 
"at  his  side,"  which  really  ought  to  have  found  a  pla.ce  in  the 
texl.  This  old  misinteqiretation  had  a  singular  influence  on  the 
artists  of  the  Middle  Ages,  who  often  represented  Moses  with  a  horn 
growing  out  of  each  temple,  as  in  the  celebrated  statue  of  the  prophet 
by  Michael  Angelo,  which  is  of  colossal  size  and  placed  in  the  Church 
of  S.  Pietro  in  N'incula  at  Rome.  According  to  Cliampollion  th(  horn 
was  the  hieroglyph ical  symbol  for  the  rays  of  the  sun.  Dr.  Pusey 
thinks  that  in  ttiis  passage  rays  are  likened  to  horfts,  as  the  face  of 
Moses  is  said  to  have  seatfortti  rays  (Exodus  sxxiv.  29), 

,  In  the  Song  of  Songs,  chapter  vi.  verse  13,  the  A.  V.  gives  us, 
■*  Return,  return,  O  Shulamite;  return,  return,  that  we  may  look  upon 
\Vhat  will  ye  see  in  the  Shulamite  ?  As  it  U'ere  the  company  of 
<o  armUs."    Here  the  Revised  Version  better  renders  it: 
Return,  relum,  O  Stiulammile  ; 
Relurn,  rclurn,  Ihal  wir  may  lixik  iipan  Ihec. 
Why  will  yc  look  upon  liic  Sbulammilo 
As  upon  llic  daiui:  of  Mnhaiiaiiii  ? 

[for  Mahanaint  the  revisers  give  in  the  margin  "two  (ompaiius" 
i  a  variant 

It  is  an  open  secret  that  the  Puritans  would  have  banished  every 
trace  of  dancing  from  the  Old  Testament  history,  from  their  deep- 

» grained  and  bigoted  hatred  of  what  has  been  beautifully  described  as 
^thc  poetry  of  motion."  In  such  passages  in  the  Psalms  as  "let 
them  praise  his  name  in  the  dance"  " praise  him  with  the  timbrel  and 
dance,"  where  the  revisers  have  rightly  retained  "  dance,"  they  would 
have  substituted  "pipe  "  or  some  other  musical  instrument 

It  is  certainly  remarkable  that  in  Psalm  btxxvii.,  where  the 
Authorised  Version  gives  us  "  As  well  the  singers  as  the  players  on 
instruments  shall  be  there,"  the  revisers,  more  true  to  the  Hebrew 
text  and  context,  render  by  "  They  that  sing  as  well  as  Ihey  that 
daxce  shall  say "  ;  and  it  is  still  more  remarkable  tliat  even  the 
iritan  Milton,  in  his  poetical  paraphrase  of  this  psalm,  renders  ; 
Bolh  Ihey  who  sing  and  they  «bo  dame 

To  sacied  songs  are  ihtie, 
In  Thee  freah  brooks  anil  sofl  slrenma  glance 
And  nl!  Thy  fountains  clear, 

The  truth  is,  the  Jews  regarded  dancing  as  the  worship  of  the 
I  Iwdy,  and  in  this  sense  Jewish  commentators  have  explained  the 
expression  in  the  Psalms,  "  All  my  bones  shall  siy,  l-otd,  vito  \'4\.\.Vii   ' 


6oS  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 


?  •  .Psalsi  x\xv.  ic).     Da\-id  himself  in  dancing  before  the 
irk  ct  ±e  Lord  fcl:  no  doubt  he  was  only  discharging  a  religious 
d:r.T  azi  g^virg  expression  by  bodily  motion  to  the  deep  feelings 
of  rsii^ic-ia  joy  with  which  he  was  animated  at  the  return  of  the  aik 
xTter  a  lic^z  ac^ence.     According  to  Plato  dancing  was  a  i/fr'tv^  in- 
stit-itioa  ir.d  inrennoa,  and  with  the  Spartans  the  mediatorial  dances 
always   Acco=;5:an:ed  their  expiator>-  sacrifices.     The  most  learned 
oc  thi  Jewiih  commentators  hold  that  every  psalm  had  a  distinct 
dance  ifprojrlated  :o  it.    In  the  temples  of  Jerusalem,  Samaria,  and 
.\Iei.ir.drii  a  staze  m-as  actually  erected  for  these  religious  dancing 
exercises,  ia  cr.e  j>art  thence  called  the  choir,  the  name  of  which  has 
fc<rn  rreserred  in  our  churches,  and  the  custom  too  till  within  a 
few  cemrirSL     The  Spanish  Cardinal  Ximenes  revived  in  his  time 
the   ^raciice  oi  Mosarabic  masses  in    the  cathedral   at    Toledo, 
wbere   ±e  peor^e  danced,  both   in  the  choir  and   in  the  nave. 
\jt  Pcre  Menestrier,  the  Jesuit,   relates  the  same   thing  of  some 
churches  in  France  in    16S2  ;  and  Mr.  Gallinore  tells  us  that  at 
L:n:oge<.  ro:  lorg  ago,  tlie  people  used  to  dance  the  round  in  the 
choir  of  the  church  which  is  under  the  invocation  of  their  patron 
5ji-:  :  and  a:  the  end  of  each  psalm,  instead  of  the  "  Gloria  Patri/' 
they  sar.g  as  follows :  •*  Sl  Marcel  I  pray  for  us,  and  we  will  dance 
ia   h:»cour  of  you."     From  these  instances  we  may  see  that  the 
modem  scct  of  tanatics  called  Jumpers,  who  seem  to  entertain  the 
strange  no:ion  that  he  who  leaps  the  highest  is  the  nearest  to  heaven, 
hive  abused  rather  than  invented  the  custom  of  religious  dancing. 

The  most  pervading  error  of  the  Revised  Version  is  clearly  its  in- 
consistency. I:  has  left  uncorrected  a  few  misleading  zxc)xxisak'&^  such 
as  '•  tired  *  tfor  jttircd,  likely  to  be  mistaken  for  xvearied),  and  this  in 
v*oI-:ion  o:  the  ver\-  principles  laid  down  by  the  revisers  themselves. 
Again.  c\er)-  reason  which  may  be  urged  for  the  revisers'  elimina- 
lica  of  the  "x* /:/.;/■«''  and  the  ^U'ockatrice*'  from  the  sacred  text  is 
c\jua!!y  strong  against  "  the  dragon "  and  "  the  satyr,"  which  the 
revisers  have  reuined.  Lastly,  in  some  texts  the  revisers  have 
brought  darkness  rather  than  light  to  the  English  reader,  as,  for 
example,  where  we  read  "  azezel''  in  the  Pentateuch  for  the  femiliar 
*•  s.i:r\r ^.\i.\  and  in  Genesis  **  the  Xephelin  were  on  the  earth  in  those 
days  *  for  the  familiar  "  there  were  giants  in  the  earth  in  those  days." 
Dut  these  blemishes  are  few  and  far  between,  and  detract  little  from 
the  \-ast  sum  total  of  the  excellencies  and  improvements  in  the 
Revijied  Version  of  the  Old  Testament,  which  we  trust  and  believe 
will  bring  the  Word  of  God  nearer  alike  to  the  intellect  and  the  heart 
and  the  soul  of  its  readers.  x.  h.  l.  leary,  d.cl.  (oxon.) 


SCIENCE  NOTES. 


Immortal  Animals. 

BUTSCHI.I,  Weismann,  and  Goette  have  for  some  time  past  main- 
uined,  on  fairly  tenable  grounds,  that  the  monocellular 
Protozoa,  i.e.,  the  marvellously  numerous  animnb  that  consist  merely 
wide-awake,  sensitive,  and  locomotive  stomach-bag  are  immortal. 

These  creatures  increase  and  mulii[ily  by  the  very  simple  device 
tf  subdividing.  They  produce  no  children,  but  split  up  into  unhmiied 
aerations  of  sisters  or  brethren.  One  of  these  animated  bags 
divides  itself  impartially  from  moulh  downwards,  through  the  middle, 
but  instead  of  each  half  flapping  open  as  would  a  dead  bag  if  thus 
divided,  the  severed  edges  of  each  section  unite,  and  two  bags  of 
equal  pattern  are  produced.  I  have  witnessed  the  whole  proceeding 
It  a  sitting  within  one  of  those  small  worlds  contained  on  a  strip  of 

s  under  a  microscope,  'I'hey  remain  side  by  side  for  a  few  seconds 
ifter  completing  the  Assure,  then  make  a  mutual  salaam,  and  each 

:s  on  his  way  rejoicing,  presently  to  repeat  the  mulliplicalion. 

Neither  is  older  nor  younger  than  the  other,  and  thus  we  have 
merely  a  growth  forming  an  endless  series,  an  ever-mulii plying 
brotherhood,  every  member  of  which  is  as  old  as  the  species  itself,  a 
Survival  of  its  primary  Adam. 

The  individuality  or  personal  identity  of  these  creatures  must  be 
lather  mixed.  It  has  been  discussed  by  Mobius,  who  maintains  that 
the  question  of  their  iramortahly  dei>ends  upon  the  determination  of 
"  who's  who  ? "  that  if  the  aged  individual  on  the  completion  of  its 
"  fissiparous  generation  "  loses  its  matronly  individuahty  and  becomes 
a  duplicated  creature  with  rejuvenated  impulsiveness  and  suscepti- 
.Ulity,  while  these  were  gradually  fading  in  the  matron,  then  we  must 
describe  these  youthful  halves  as  twin  daughters  of  a  dead  mother. 

On  the  other  hand  it  is  contended  that  "  there  are  only  two  alter- 
natives, death  and  deathlessness.  If  death  occurs  let  the  dead  body, 
the  mass  of  organised  matter  which  has  ceased  to  perform  any  vital 
function,  be  produced." 

Extrication  from  this  dilemma  demands  too  great   a  strain  of 


i 


6 TO  The  Gentleman* s  Magazine. 

intellect  for  me  to  attempt  it      I  therefore  leave  my  readers  to 
decide. 

Extract  of  Meat. 

IN  the  Journal  of  the  Chemical  Society  of  April  is  an  abstract  of  a 
paper  by  M.  Rubner,  who  has  made  experiments  on  feedmg 
a  dog  with  extract  of  meat.  He  arrives  at  the  general  conclusion 
that  meat  extract  passes  through  the  system  unchanged  ;  "  that  it 
does  not  in  the  least  contribute  to  bodily  heat ;  and  that  the  waste 
of  tissue  is  neither  hastened  nor  retarded  by  it" 

I'his  amounts  to  stating  that  it  has  no  nutritive  value,  aconclusion 
strongly  at  variance  with  the  experience  of  nurses  and  physicians. 

I  made  some  experiments  on  myself  about  twelve  years  ago  by 
feeding  for  a  fortnight  exclusively  on  bread  and  extract  of  meat,  made 
according  to  Liebig*s  formula,  that  of  the  Ramomie  Company. 
Warning  symptoms  of  gout  induced  me  to  discontinue,  and  I  con- 
cluded that  it  was  rather  a  stimulant  than  a  food. 

Subsequent  observations  and  enquiries  have  confirmed  this,  and 
have  led  me  to  suppose  that  the  unquestionable  benefit  of  beef  tea  to 
invalids  depends  upon  a  condition  of  the  body  in  which  there  is  a 
deficiency  of  kreatine,  kreatinine,  or  the  phosphates,  &c,  contained 
in  the  juice  of  flesh,  or  possibly  of  all  of  these  constituents,  and  that 
the  extract  of  meat  replaces  them  ;  that  it  acts  in  a  manner  some- 
what analogous  to  the  transfusion  of  living  blood,  by  suppljring 
necessary  material  without  calling  upon  the  digestive  organs  to  do 
the  work  of  preparing  it  from  ordinary  food. 

If  this  is  the  case  it  is  obvious  that  it  can  be  of  no  service  to 
people  in  full  health  and  fully  supplied  with  such  materials.  It  may 
even  do  mischief  by  disturbing  the  proper  balance  of  organic  con- 
stituents, though  this  danger,  according  to  the  experiments  of 
M.  Rubner,  is  averted  or_  moderated  by  its  excretion  in  unaltered 
form. 

The  Eoc.-tirning  Instinct. 

MD.\RESTE  describes  an  experiment  showing  that  the  farm- 
.  house  belief  in  the  necessity  of  turning  eggs  during 
incuKuion  is  well  founded.  He  kept  eight  eggs  motionless  in  an 
inoulutor,  and  they  failed  to  produce  a  single  chick.  Eight  similar 
eg^^  placed  in  a  similar  incubator  produced  six  living  chicks,  and  the 
seventh  when  broken  on  the  tn-enty-second  day  contained  a  livings 
x^-^U-tonncvl  chick. 

11\e   cviitor  of   the  Journal  of  Scimce  asks  a  very  pertinent 


Science  Notes.  6ii 

question  as  a  comment  on  this.  "  Quctre :  the  origin  of  the  egg- 
turning  instinct  of  hens  during  incubation." 

I  venture  to  suggest  an  answer,  which,  however,  is  quite  hetero- 
dox at  the  present  time  when  every  instinct  is  so  ingeniously  ascribed 
to  the  hereditary  survival  of  advantageous  accidents. 

Five-and-twenty  years  of  experience  in  fowl-keeping  and  fowl- 
breeding  has  satisfied  me  that  when  a  hen  is  sitting,  the  lower  part  of 
her  body — that  which  directly  covers  the  eggs — is  in  a  state  of  abnormal 
or  inflammatory  heat  and  irritation.  Previous  to  sitting  she  pulls  the 
feathers  therefrom  as  a  sort  of  preliminary  cooling  process,  and  I  find 
that  the  most  effective  means  of  curing  a  hen  of  her  desire  to  sit  is 
to  administer  a  sitz-bath,  or,  rather,  a  series  of  such  baths  at  short 
intervals. 

Hens  that  would  otherwise  indulge  in  clucking  and  sitting  for 
two  or  three  months  and  lay  no  more  eggs  during  that  period,  may 
be  thus  restored  to  more  profitable  habits.  The  probable  rationale 
of  this  is  that  the  vital  energy  and  redundant  circulation  is  thrown 
by  the  bath  from  the  incubating  surface  back  to  the  generating 
ovarian  organs,  thus  restoring  her  from  the  condition  of  an  egg- 
hatcher  to  that  of  an  egg-generator. 

But  what  has  this  to  do  with  the  egg-turning  will  be  asked  ?  Simply 
that  the  local  bodily  heat  becomes  a  source  of  discomfort  to  the 
sitter,  and  that  she  finds  relief  in  turning  the  cooler  side  of  the  egg 
to  the  bare,  over-heated  surface  of  her  breast  and  abdomen. 

This  must  comfort  the  mother  and  supply  the  chick-germ  with 
an  all-round  uniformity  of  nourishing  temperature. 

It  is  interesting  to  watch  the  skilful  application  of  the  beak  in 
turning  one  egg  afler  another  by  upheaving  jerks,  which  in  spite  of 
their  vigour  rarely  if  ever  break  the  shells. 

The  desire  to  sit  is,  I  think,  a  compound  of  philoprogenitive 
cuddling  love  for  the  smooth,  round  things,  and  a  craving  for  relief 
from  the  cutaneous  heat  and  irritation. 

A  typical  cockney  visitor  last  summer  propounded  a  much 
simpler  theory:  I  remarked  that  one  of  my  hens  wanted  to  sit 
He  replied  quite  innocently,  "  Oh !  I  suppose  she's  tired,  poor  thing." 

Raising  the  Dead. 

IN  the  current  number  of  The  Asciepiad  Dr.  Richardson  recounts 
his  *'  Researches  in  Resuscitation,"  and  suggests  some  serious 
reflections  on  the  questions  of  What  is  death?  When  does  death 
occur?  May  life  be  restored  after  actual  death? 


Tru  Ginlkman  $  Magazine. 

J  dtooladoa''  with  aitificial  respiration  a 

an  and  five  minutes  after  being  killed 

,  the  heart  being  perfectly  still,  cold, 

ijMil/.     Aninate  that  had  been  killed  by  suQbca- 

■J  oAa  Tscea  disfilaTed  by  partial  dissection,  were 

ID  a  tfMte  of  Maoihr  mitabiUty  that  the  expcDniecl 

1  ■(<»«■  of  hamanity,  L<.  lest  the  mutilated  body 

5  MBtknt  Ufe. 

Frngs  ^tmcmA  b^  aimte  oT  amy]  were  restored  after  nine  days 
ifBlOit  dcidk  ;  in  ooe  case  alter  signs  of  putiefactivc  change  had 

Vanoot  atedtods  of  effecdng  these  resosciiations  are  described, 
&e  mosi  (xigiiul  and  eSectire  being  that  of  pumping  warm  defibri- 

ed  aad  oxygcaiced  blood  into  an  artery  in  such  a  manner  that 

smfcca(lhc|)amp  shall  correspond  vith  the  natural  pulsations  of 

aiteiT,  and  lo  tbc  stroke  of  the  heart,  vhich  is  thus  awakened 
.  lis  cnsbNBaty  wotk. 

The  adioa  of  peroxide  of  hydrogen  in  reanimating  the  blood 
and  resMnog  aaintal  beat  in  a  really  dead  body  is  quite  startling. 

Tbc  a^eot  upoo  which  Dr.  Richardson  most  relics,  in  protracting 
Ibe period  that  may  e'..;---.-  !.■;■■.■->■;;■:■.  .:i']iirent  de.ith  and  restoration  of 
life,  is  one  that  by  no  means  suggests  itself  to  the  uninitiated,  viz. 
"  cxncme  cold."  This  reliance  is  based  on  the  fact  that  it  suspends 
the  aggr^ation  of  the  blood  corpuscles  in  the  minute  vessels  ;  the 
contraction  of  the  capillaries  ;  the  occurrence  of  rigor  mortis ;  putre- 
factive chai^  in  the  blood  ;  and,  more  especially,  that  it  retards  or 
completely  prevents  the  coagulation  of  the  blood. 

^\'hat  I  ha\-G  read  in  this  paper,  and  have  heard  in  conversation 
with  its  author,  appears  to  me  to  justify  the  conclusion  that  a 
drowned  or  suffocated  man  is  not  hopelessly  dead  so  long  as  the 
bodily  organs  remain  uninjured  by  violence  or  disease,  and  the 
blood  remains  sulhciently  liquid  to  be  set  in  motion  artificially,  and 
supplied  with  a  Uttle  oxygen  to  start  the  chemical  movements  of  life. 

The  CossTiTtTios  of  Steel. 

THE  discovery  of  a  substance  which  is  so  hard  that  it  can  cut 
and  otherwise  shape  almost  every  other  substance  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,  and  yet  may  be  so  moditied  in  hardness  that  it  may  cut 
and  shape  itself,  has  contributed  more  to  the  physical  power  of  man 
than  any  other  that  can  I>e  named.  It  created  the  greatest  era  in  his 
physical  progress. 


Science  Notes. 

ttTiy  is  it  that  steel,  when  lieated  to  redness  and  suddenly 
cooled,  should  assume  such  diamond-like  hardness;  that  when 
similflrly  heated  and  slowly  cooled  it  should  become  so  soft ;  and  that 
liie  hardened  stee!  may  so  easily  be  tempered  to  any  intermediate 
degree  of  hardness  by  simply  raising  it  again  to  intermediate  tem. 
I'Eiatutes  ? 

I  endeavoured  to  reply  to  this  question  in  a  paper  published  in 
The  Metal! iir^ual Rtvie^v  {New  York),  of  Xovember  1S77.  My  theory 
is  based  on  some  observations  and  experiments  made  some  years 
previously  in  Sheffield. 

I  found  that  in  certain  samples  of  Spiegeleisen  (composed  of 
iton,  manganese,  and  carbon)  thin  plates  of  well-formed  crystals 
occurred  here  and  there,  forming  a  honeycombed  structure  by  the 
crossing  of  ihe  brilliant  angular  plates  that  stood  out  from  the  general 
mass.  This  general  mass  differed  considerably  in  composition  in 
different  samples,  while  my  analyses  of  the  crystalline  plates  taken 
from  various  samples  supplied  at  different  times  for  the  ISessemer 
works,  showed  thai  their  composition  was  invariable  as  regards  the 
proportion  of  the  carbon  to  the  iron,  though  the  proportion  of  man- 
ganese was  not  so  constant. 

This  fixed  composition  corresponded  to  the  formula  Fe^  C  (four 
equivalents  of  iron  to  one  of  carbon),  indicating  the  existence  ofa  defi- 
Jitte  chemical  compound,  not  a  mere  indefinite  variable  mixture  like 
jmat  forming  ordinary  steel.  The  existence  of  such  a  compound  is 
iupporled  by  the  researches  of  many  eminent  metallurgists. 

It  is  excessively  hard,  so  brittle  as  to  be  useless  for  the  purposes 
to  which  steel  is  applied,  and  it  fuses  at  a  much  lower  temperature 
than  the  fusing  point  of  iron,  or  of  any  useful  steel. 

Iron,  in  its  approximately  pure  slate,  is  practically  infusible  in 

iiuuy  furnaces,  but  if  pieces  of  such  iron  be  thrown  into  a  baih 

melted  steel,  or  melted  pig-iron  (which  is  rendered  fusible  by  its 
%)purities),  the  intractable  wrought  iron  dissolves  in  the  liquid  hke 
IDgar  in  water,  and  is  somehow  diffused  throughout  it. 
'  Steel  is  now  made  by  thus  melting  wrought-iron  scrap  in  fusible 
Spiegeleisen  or  ferro- manganese,  or  in  selected  pig-iron  made  from 
haematite.  Stee!  generally  contains  from  one-fourth  to  one-tenth  of 
Ihe  amount  of  carbon  contained  in  the  Fe,  C  crystals. 

My  theory  of  the  constitution  of  steel  is  that  it  is  not  a  direct 
compound  or  mixture  of  iron  and  carbon,  but  an  alloy  of  metallic 
iron  with  this  metallic  compound  Fe,  C  ;  ihe  mixture  being  capable 

kof  taking  place  in  any  proportions,  .as  with  other  mixtures  or  alloys     ^^ 
that  are  not  true  compounds,  HH 


equ 
Kiute 

Khai 


•i,: 


a  V 


614  The  GentUmafis  Magazine. 

Wh^a  ibis  -niTtnre  of  miterials  ofTaiying  faslbility  is  heated, the 
Bxe  fus^Ke  issamsi  die  semi-fluid  or  plasdc  conditioii,  while  the 
other  xcauiiis  sD^id.  It  h^s  been  proved  that  liquids  expand  and 
Lc:  cKxe  thin  sohdsMo  when  equally  heated  and  cooled,  and 
Uw  applies  to  sach  compounds  as  the  Fe4C. 
Wbar  rien  m:xsi  happen  if  such  a  mixture  is  suddenly  cooled? 
ObrLocsIy  a  staite  of  molecular  tension  due  to  unequal  rates  of  con- 
tractfrac  as  internal  strain  or  pulling  against  each  other  of  the  iron 
jai  the  caiboa  compound,  the  which  tension  constitutes  hardness 
rittleness.  Slowly  cooled  they  gradually  yield  and  the  molecular 
2s  thss  diminished  <^  prevented. 
Tbe  rsct  that  a  given  piece  of  steel  when  hardened  is  larger  than 
wben  sxt-sed  obvioasly  supports  this  theory.  In  further  support  I 
cits  the  general  tac:  that  all  alloys  composed  of  metals  of  different 
fcsfbU'ties  are  harder  than  their  constituents,  or  the  mean  of  their 
coasdnents.  G an  metal,  bell  metal,  pewter,  type  metal,  bronzes,  the 
5!>ld  and  silver  alloy  of  our  coins,  are  examples  of  this. 

Some  experiments  have  recendy  been  made  at  Creusot  by  MM. 
Osmond  and  Weith  which  aJord  a  remarkable  confirmation  of  this 
theory :  a  direct  ph}-sical  demonstration,  in  fact 

They  made  thin  sections  of  cast  steel,  attached  them  to  glass  by 
means  of  Canada  balsam,  treated  them  with  cold  dilute  nitric  acid, 
thereby  dissolving  the  iron,  and  "  leaving  a  residue  of  a  nitioderiva- 
tive  of  a  carbo-hydrate,  and  the  skeleton  thus  obtained  shows  the 
distribatioQ  of  the  carbon  in  the  original  steeL  It  is  found  that  fused 
sted  (;>,  steel  that  has  been  fused)  has  a  cellular  structure,  the  nudd 
^^'Ksisdmi  ^f  p:ire  ircn  and  the  envelopes  of  a  carbide  of  iron.  These 
simple  cellules  are  grouped  in  compound  cellules,  the  bounding 
surfaces  of  which  are  soft  iron  free  from  carbon." 

The  ab^ve  Is  quoted  from  the  abstract  of  the  paper  in  the  May 
nur:iber  of  the  'Journal  of  the  Chemical  Society;"  the  italics  arc  my 
own.  It  further  states  that  "  when  a  bar  of  steel  is  dissolved,  as  in 
Wey rs  method  for  the  determination  of  carbon,  the  residue,  which 
consists  of  a  carbide  of  iron,  retains  the  appearance  and  dimensions 
of  the  original  bar,  and  it  is  seen  that  the  small  fiates  of  the  carbide 
form  a  network,  within  the  meshes  of  which  the  pure  iron  was  con- 
tained ;"  and  also  that  **  the  compound  cellules  seem  to  be  the  result 
of  indej^endent  dentritic  aggr^ations,  which  have  mtUucUly  limited 
each  ether  and  expelled  from  their  lines  of  junction  the  still  liquid  carbide 
^in^t.^ 

The  authors,  while  thus  confirming  my  theory  of  the  constitution 
of  steel,  do  not  seem  to  be  acquainted  with  it,  nor  to  perceive  the 


SI 

i: 


Science  Notes. 

Itearing  of  this  structure  on  the  much  vexed  question  of  ihe  cause  of 
IV-  h.irdening  and  tempering  of  steel,  concerning  which  some  very 
i,;iecT  theories  have  been  propounded  ;  such,  for  example,  as  affirming 
ihw  the  carbon  is  ayslalliicd  into  diamonds,  and  these  effect  tlie 
hardening, 

I  hope  my  readers  will  understand  that  in  using  ihe  term 
molecular  strain  or  tension,  I  am  not  dreaminj;  of  ultimate  molecules, 
but  refer  to  physically  demonstrable  constituent  particles.  "  Molecule  " 
signifies  a  sraali  mass. 

Degenerate  Nests. 

THEREstilt  remains  among  some  good  people  the  old  idea  that 
the  so-called  "  instincts  "  of  animals  are  divine  inspirations, 
by  means  of  which  the  animal  perfoims  its  work  with  an  excellence 
surjassing  the  possibilities  of  human  attainment  by  human  means  of 
experience  and  teaching. 

It  is  curious  at  this  date  to  read  the  dialogues  on  instinct  in 
Brougham's  dissertations,  and  his  mathematical  demonstration  of  the 
absolute  perfection  of  the  stmcture  of  the  cells  of  bees. 

We  now  know  that  these  miraculously  perfect  angles  are  the 
necessary  results  of  the  pressure  of  the  wax  upon  itself 

Birds'  nests  are  among  the  popular  examples  of  this  supposed 
infallibility.  We  are  told  in  the  old  books  that  each  species  builds 
its  nest  of  a  (ixed  pattern,  and  docs  so  without  any  instruction  or 

i  copying. 
So  far  from  this  being  the  case,  it  has  been  proved  that  birds 
batched  and  reared  in  captivity  are  sad  bunglers,  as  bad  as  amateur 
workmen  of  the  human  species,  their  nests  being  very  clumsy  siruc- 
birea,  in  some  cases  merely  a  heap  of  rubbish. 
There  is  an  interesting  letter  in  JValure  of  April  9,  by  Mr.  Charles 
Pixon,  in  which  he  slates  that  chaflinches  taken  to  New  Zealand  and 
Siere  set  at  liberty  have  evidently  fallen  into  a  state  of  mental 
Confusion  by  imperfect  remembrance  of  the  architecture  of  their  old 
bomes,  and  mixing  these  reminiscences  with  the  impressions  produced 
by  contemplating  those  of  their  new  neighbours.  The  result  is  a 
confused  imitation  of  both  the  New  Zealand  "hang  nests"  and 
those  of  the  British  chaffinch;  and  this,  according  to  Mr.  Dixon's 
descaiption,  must  be  almost  as  barbarous  as  some  of  the  suburban 
architectural  excrescences  in  which  recently  migrated  citiiens  attempt 
to  combine  in  a  villa  residence  the  features  of  a  London  street  house 
B  witb  those  of  an  antique  rural  cottage  or  a  parish  church. 


6i6  Thi  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


yii.  Dlxoc!iis  a  p?iotogTaph  of  one  of  these  "Queen  Anne' 

Ir  sboold  be  carefully  preserved  and  others  taken, 


«>  jc=:CLT  a  reaxd  oc  the  progress  of  these  emigrants,  in  order  that 

will  gradually  revert  towards  the  original 


type  jcrttf^  piresSw  oc  niove  in  the  direction  of  more  closely  and 
sfcZciTy  ojcyj:;^  tbf  domesdc  architecture  of  their  new  neighbours. 
SiBci  X  reccri  wiZ  assist  in  the  sdution  of  some  of  the  much  debated 


Incvbati>x  and  3dAONEn5\r. 

%  N  coi  writer  described  prejudice  as  "  the  spider  of  the  mind," 
J"A.  setfirr^  its  reseablaace  to  the  spider  which  hangs  its  web  in 
al  Tuoss  :  in  ±e  humblest  coctage  and  the  noblest  mansion  alike ; 
c^ersirre.  say^  ±5s  good  mooiror,  beware  to  sweep  from  the  dwelling 
m  TOX  ^tA  :Se  co5«ebs  thus  ubcquitoosly  woven. 

I  i:rL  rsmizjced  o£  this  sage  advice  whenever  I  come  upon  any 
bTTcoesis  wcjci  izvckes  ejectriciiy  or  magnetism  to  the  explanation 

Tlrs  s  sew  tie  cise  in  reading  an  account  of  the  experiments 
cc  sccK  re  rse  zacdem  liacei » see  their  RiKdLvnti  of  December  14 
t5i>.t\  Ft^:iKsscr  Mi^ggSorasI  and  I>r.  Magini  have  been  magnetising 
<^;g>  in  az  izcuhitcr.  and  nnd  that  the  action  of  the  magnets  is 
RCLX:::^  :2j;r  =coe  cc  the  e§^  escape  this  retarding  action,  s^nd 
r>.i:  it  is  rrxwcrccal  to  the  pow«r  of  the  magnets. 

W^bsn  farther  I  leam  tha:  Processcw  Maggiorani  concludes  his 
pa^^er  r^y  sq4;$e$cz^  that  the  magnetism  interferes  by  virtue  of  iw 
arilc^  t^:*  ▼'-tal  force,  ev  cobwebs  become  \'ery  thick,  in  spite  of  my 
veiTenccJi  cc  r:e  a-'>-ie-:  fratenutv  of  the  Ivnx-eved.  This  habit  of 
ev.r;i;T:'*u:  evff>thi::^  ^hxh  is  cot  understood  by  the  mysterious 
xccf>.7  .^c  :^C5«  :".  rc^  '<  bicmiir^  soziethin^  like  a  superstition. 

W.    MATTIEU    WILUAMS. 


6,7 


TABLE  TALK. 


Proposed  Resiorateos  of  the  Church  of  Sr.   Bakihot-osjew 
THE  Great, 

IT  is  to  be  trusted  that  no  lack  of  funds  or  other  cause  will  inter- 
fere with  the  proposed  task  of  restoring  the  church  of  St, 
Bartholomew  the  Great,  Smithfield.  One  of  the  earliest  churches  of 
the  Austin  Canons  in  England,  a  generation  later  in  date  than  the 
clupcl  in  the  White  Tower,  it  affords  an  admirable  illustration  of  the 
state  of  architecture  in  England  in  the  days  of  Henry  I.,  and  is  a 
priceless  ecclesiastical  monument.  Its  present  state  is  a  disgrace  to 
London,  I'he  apse  is  occupied  as  a  fringe  manufactory,  which 
projects  over  the  east  end  of  the  church  and  overhangs  the  altar, 
bdng  supported  by  iron  columns  within  the  altar  rails  ;  the  site  of  the 
north  transept  is  taken  up  by  a  blacksmith's  forge  and  a  dwelling- 
house  ;  the  north  triforium  holds  the  parochial  boys'  school,  and  the 
chapter  house  the  girls'  and  infants'  schools.  That  the  inclusion 
within  the  building  of  these  establishments  interferes  with  the 
conduct  of  service,  and  is  in  every  sense  an  indecency,  will  be 
granted.  It  is,  however,  with  the  antiquarian  loss  such  a  stale  of 
affairs  involves,  rather  than  with  the  desecration  of  a  building 
intended  for  worship,  I  am  concerned.  Those  who  know  the  value, 
historical  and  architectural,  of  such  early  specimens  of  Norman  work- 
manship, can  scarcely  be  deaf  to  the  appeal  now  made  for  funds  to 
clear  from  encumbrance  and  restore  to  ecclesiastical  uses  what 
remains  of  the  edifice.  At  the  present  moment  exceptional  facilities 
for  the  acquisition  of  the  portion  of  the  building  now  misapplied  are 
furnished.  The  sum  required  seems  large,  but  is  nothing  when  the 
importance  and  value  of  the  restoration  are  taken  into  account.  All 
necessity  to  dwell  upon  the  features  of  the  church  is  fortunately  spared. 
In  the  Gen  I U  mail's  Afagatitie  foi  Ocloher,  1863,  appears  the  substance 
of  a  lecture  by  Mr.  J.  H.  Parker,  F.S  A,,  delivered  on  the  church, 
and  subsequently  reprinted  as  a  pamphlet.  From  this  a  full  account 
_  can  be  obtained  of  the  edifice,  and  in  it  will  be  found  the  most  ^ 
^■eloquent  and  convincing  appeal  in  favoutof  iht  ^TO^(jsffliT^V5sMiKi&-  ^M 
^B        VOL.  cct-vni.     .\o.  i8j4.  M\.  V 


<6ia  T'/iif  G^n£ Union  i  Mj^.izz:i€. 

A^tGN'O  :he  n.iirnerr:ii=    ••  :i--:niv^   ■:f  riminiscences   or   memoirs 
which  have  rs-.t^ntiv  *:e:iTi  .5 sued  :\i'v  have  an   interest   more 
^ecioi  ^an  mends  -ihe   '  .Vu.iubicvz'^r.iiv   :f  H -nry  Taylor.**  *      From 
*ncsr  works   :i  -.is  ilaas  x  a  lerarrLtcid  ':y  :he  fact  that  it  is  published 
;ji  :he  lifetime    :t   :i3  wr-.ter.  whc    iidtly  as.iuraes  that  in  his  eighty- 
jixth  year  he  has    ■:ui.:"Lv^.i  in:st  -i  these  'vhi:  might  be  hurt  by  his 
^gveiazions  :r  mi^ht  :a;c  /iim  -^v-.th  iniiiscretii:n.      In  fact,  there   is  no 
word  in  the  rsz  vciuines  vhuih  zTuid,  a:  any  rime  have  wounded  any 
reflsonahiy  manlv  iusCirr.tiLiliiies.     V.'::h  :he  book  itself  and  with  the 
rhararter  :i   ta  author  I  am  ^xx  iij^Trcsetl  :r.  this  place  to  deal.     There 
is.  he  ever.  :r.e  c«:  i-ir  : :  which  I  vish  the  mere  earnestly  to  draw  atten- 
tion, inasmiir.h  as  .n  all  the  rev.e'vs   I  .'.ave  seen  it  passes  unnoticed. 
This  ia  the  characteristically  Er^iiish  '^orthir.ess  of  the  life  it  depicts. 
Besides  exhihit:n;z  to  is  tlte  7u:r.ir.;,  r.cc  altoi^ether  attractive,  at  the 
outset,  of  life  in  his  father' i  he  use,  :^;r  tlenry  sho^-s  us  many  other 
iaterioTS.     Ir-  all  these  1  r.T.':  \:.t  sar-ie  asi.  e-:ti.      The  life  is  energetic, 
resolute,  r.o o I e .  p ur ± ,  tsx  a!  v i y ^  ar.: . ^1. 1  c .  ar.  i  rarely  w : r. so m e .      It  is, 
however  the  lii::  ef  r.ic2.  ar.'i  v:rj.e--  -a- he  ha. e  ma»:e  Eniiland  what 
it  is,  and  who.  I  ve-tur?  t:  \:.':,  i-   :hce   ::  -i.fr.  lulty  ar.d  doubt,  will 
keep  it  what  it  is.     S:r  H;jnr.-  h.r.t.icl:'  :.-•.  ai  he  alm-iit  owns,  didactic, 
opjinionated,  ar.d  prarr.-.atLxl.     H;  lelir^-,  however,  in  his  life  and 
his  5urroundir.a:=,  '\Tv  wh.ch  I  ir.':l-de  h.i  inendshifs.  to  those  who  are 
the  salt  of  the  earth — a  salt,  moreover,  m uch  needed  in  days  when  our 
moral  cz</;;>z^.  hke  our  aerial  .-*:";;"•::•.  islar^elvimiuenced  from  abroad. 
A  pCTUvil  of  S.r   Her.r\-    ra\leT'5  vclur.ies  15   invigorating  for  those 
whose  faith  in  the  future  o'  Kfi^la-.i  ha5  been  disturbed.     It  is  also 
calculated  to  prove  stimulating  to  those  who  are  beginning  to  weary 
in  the  pursuit  of  the  highest  aims. 

SVl.VAM-    IKl'.  \N. 


Mr.  Freeman  on  the  Auuse  or  Language. 


Table  Talk.  619 

*  two  lives  would  connect  the  present  time  with  the  period  of 
'^sorge  the  First,  Sir  Cliristopher  Wren,  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  and  the 
I      peat  Duke  of  Marlborough. 

B'T'O  the  long  list  of  those  who  take  upon  themselves  to  condemn 
^1  J.  modern  slovenliness  of  speech  and  abuse  of  language  must 
^Fiiow  be  added  Mr.  Freeman.  In  two  thoughtful  papers  contributed 
to  a  popular  periodical  he  deals  with  a  few  words,  chiefly  of 
classical  origin,  which  have  lost  wholly  their  primitive  signification 
and  are  put  to  degraded  use.  These  words  include  "  decimate," 
"  ritualist,"  "  vandalism,"  "  triumph,"  "  ovation,"  and  "  proletarian." 
"Triumph"  Mr.  Freeman  regards  as  irrecoverably  lost,  but  he  hopes 
to  save  "ovation,"  The  latter  word,  in  the  sense  in  which  it  is 
used  in  ordinary  journalism,  would,  of  course,  in  spite  of  the  semi- 
jocular  defence  of  it  by  a  well-known  critic  in  the  columns  of  the 
Dmly  Neti'S,  never  be  employed  by  any  man  with  a  pretence  to 
scholarship.  Just  as  a  triumph  is  a  ceremony  commemorative  of 
victory  and  not  a  victory,  so  an  ovation  is  a  secondary  and  minor 
triumph — a  thanksgiving  for  a  minor  victory,  in  which,  instead  of  being 
drawn  in  a  chariot  and  sacrificing  a  bull,  the  victor  walks  and  sacrifices 
a  sheep.  I  cannot  follow  Mr.  Freeman  through  his  entire  argument, 
and  am  only  too  glad  to  welcome  his  aid  in  a  cause  in  which  every 
educated  man  is  interested,  that  of  preserving  the  true  significance  of 
our  noble  language.  Whether  ignorance  or  carelessness  has  more  to 
do  with  the  degradation  of  language  that  goes  on  I  know  not  I  will 
only  so  far  defend  the  lower  class  of  journalists,  to  whom  it  is  cus- 
tomary to  ascribe  the  blame,  by  saying  that  their  ignorant  treatment 
of  words  of  classical  origin  is  paralleled  by  the  abuse  by  scholars  of 
words  of  good  plain  English.  Men  of  high  education  continually 
use  such  pleonasms  as  "  from  whence  "  and  "  from  thence,"  and  some- 
times, when  arraigned,  shelter  themselves  behind  other  criminals. 
Mr.  Freeman  even,  in  the  very  essay  condemnatory  of  others,  stoops 
to  the  use  of  the  words  "a  one,"  surely  one  of  the  worst  weaknesses  of 
modern  writing.  Instead  of  saying  that  an  analogy  may  be  "good 
and  true,"  which  is  vigorous,  terse  English,  he  says  it  may  be  that 
it  "  K  a  good  and  true  one"  which  is  slipshod.  Of  such  offence, 
however,  Mr.  Freeman  is  rarely  guilty,  and  if  ever  his  attention  is 
directed  to  the  point  he  will  not  again  offend  in  it.     Meanwhile,  I 

EE  he  will  join  the  band  of  those  who  in  this  matter  think  of  the 
3s  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  keep  "  pcgpri^  a.'wo'^ " 


ttri^^^ 


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